


Balsam and Ash

by 4wholecats



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Genre: Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Multi, Sigurd survives AU, in hiding with the boys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:34:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 20,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28266228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4wholecats/pseuds/4wholecats
Summary: The merchant presses a nervous hand to the side of the body’s neck, and lets out a sigh of relief. “Still holding on, somehow.”“What is it?” Shannan questions from beyond the cart.“A survivor.”
Relationships: Aoife | Oifey/Shannan, Diadora | Deirdre/Siglud | Sigurd
Comments: 75
Kudos: 102





	1. dōnum

**Author's Note:**

> i be playing fe4. no thoughts, brain sigurd.

The sound of knuckles rapping on the front door upsets the sleeping baby instantly, and it doesn’t take long before the young prince begins to cry. 

“Oh, Naga not again-” Shannan stands from the table and rushes towards the cobbled-together crib, scooping the toddler up into his skinny arms.

“Fuck,” Oifey bites under his breath, the wooden legs of his chair squeaking as he gets to his feet. “We just got him to bed…”

Shannan turns from the crib, fussy child struggling in his grip. The boy eyes the door to their little shack carefully. “Who do you think it is?” he asks in a whisper.

“...Perhaps a survivor?” Oifey mutters back. The news had swept in from Belhalla quickly. Reports of survivors were scarce, but perhaps… 

Shannan backs up towards the garden door as Oifey jumps, another loud knock upsetting Seliph even further. The tactician waves his friend away, out of sight of the windows. 

“Surely-” Shannan hisses “the local guard wouldn’t throw us out? This place was abandoned!”

Oifey brings a finger to his lips as he approaches the thundering door, standing on his toes to catch a glimpse out of the smudged peephole. He shakes his head at Shannan. “No one I recognize, just stay quiet, and maybe they’ll leave us alone-”

“Anyone in there?” The man hammers the door again, trying the knob for good measure. “I have an important delivery!”

Shannan’s confused expression mirrors Oifey’s own. “Don’t answer.”

The other boy nods, pressing himself into the space between the door and the wall, out of view. There’s a shuffling outside as the stranger tries the doorknob again before walking to the window, searching for signs of life inside of the house. Seliph wails loudly in the silence, unwilling to agree with the clammy hand that has closed around his mouth. Shannan peeks around the wall, sharing a worried look with Oifey. Surely, the man outside can hear the baby’s cries through the house’s thin walls.

“Here-'' Shannan releases Seliph’s mouth, picking up Oifey’s stubby iron sword and tossing it to him, “He knows we’re here. Answer the door, and if things go south, we’ll make a break out the back.”

Oifey catches the blade deftly; its dulled edge not posing much of a threat to him as it sails across the room. Not a blade for killing with, but better than being empty handed. Seliph complains again in the silence as Oifey throws back the lock. 

The man on the other side of the door is skittish, rubbing his hands together and looking around nervously. He lets out a relieved sigh as Oifey opens the house just a sliver; just enough to look (or perhaps shove a sword) through. 

“Ah, would you be, uh, Sir Oifey? Or perhaps… Shannan? I have a delivery for them.”

“What kind of delivery?” Oifey’s tone is flat, and he angles his blade so that the sunlight catches off the scratches in its iron. The merchant backs away at the sight of the weapon, hands gripping his coat nervously.

“Mercy! Mercy, young man- I swear on the good name of Od- I mean you no harm!” He yelps as he slides off the front step, back towards the cart that has made itself at home in the street. Oifey squints at it. Bags of fruit peek out from its canvas covering. He lowers the blade a fraction.

“Who sent you?” He demands.

“A well-off fellow with wild green hair asked me to make a delivery to this village… he would not give his name, but he paid handsomely…” The merchant glances around at the empty street. The house is on the abandoned outskirts of town and thankfully, they are alone. “My, uh, wares will not keep for much longer, young man- please, see it in your heart to trust me on this…”

Shannan approaches from behind, Seliph babbling in his grip. Oifey hands off his blade to his friend before opening the door cautiously, stepping out into the cold air. The merchant (and Oifey is confident this man is a merchant now, he’s too portly and awkward to be an assassin,) totters on back to his cart, and the younger man follows, still cautious.

Well-off fellow with wild green hair… That could only be prince Lewyn. But… hadn’t he been counted amongst the slain?

“Is this box too heavy for you?” The merchant startles him out of his thoughts as a wooden crate of food is placed in his hands, weighing him down and making his elbows ache. Shannan, liberated from Seliph’s pudgy grip, trots up behind him, taking the provisions and walking them back inside. The man unloads almost the whole cart into Oifey’s arms, to the confusion and amazement of the tactician. Only when the convoy is nearly empty, containing a few half empty boxes and some spare tarp, does he slow his generous pace. The merchant peeks around the edge of the canvas back down the street. They are still alone, and Oifey grows suspicious again. The man is hiding something, and he wears this fact on his sleeve. 

“Looking for something?” Oifey asks, and the man bristles. He almost seems fearful. 

“I was told by the sender that this delivery would be a matter of utmost security… I don’t mean to offend with my caution, but… my, uh,  _ last item _ ... is not for the public eye…”

Oifey raises an eyebrow. Was this man peddling important documents? Weapons? Simply passing along information? Perhaps knowledge of survivors?

The merchant urges Oifey into the back of the cart with him. The tactician hesitates, but Shannan’s hovering presence, sword still tied at his belt, is a comfort. Oifey climbs up, squatting down next to a box of overripe apples. The smell is pungent and sickly sweet, and contains hints of… No, it’s covering hints of-

The merchant grimaces, reaching for the spare tarp and tugging on it gently. It comes away slowly, getting caught on whatever is crushed beneath it between the boxes of decay. The smell, no longer masked by fabric, makes Oifey gasp. 

Blood. Lots of it.

In the stunted light, the young man isn’t quite sure what he’s looking at. The first thing he can identify is a boot; scuffed and covered in ash- twisted at an awkward angle. There’s a leg attached to the boot, and as Oifey shuffles closer he pieces together more of the person, folded in on themselves between the boxes, dirty hair obscuring their face as they lean forward. 

The merchant presses a nervous hand to the side of the body’s neck, and lets out a sigh of relief. “Still holding on, somehow.”

Oh. A  _ living _ body. 

“Help me with him, young man. My arms aren’t strong enough for this kind of exercise anymore,” he grumbles, grabbing a hold of limp limbs and coaxing the person out of their tight ball. Bewildered, Oifey complies, taking a leg in his hands as he backs up. 

“What is it?” Shannan questions behind him.

“A survivor.” The merchant’s tone is grim. Shannan gasps as he races forwards, a hand on Oifey’s back as he steps down from the cart, leg still in his grasp. Whoever this is, they’re tall- and as heavy as a sack of bricks. 

The merchant brings up the rear, emerging into the sunlight with his hands under the person’s arms, keeping them out of the dirt. Strands of blue hair hang limply from their head, and despite the blood and the burns and the bruises Oifey can see-

“ _ Lord Sigurd! _ ” Shannan dives to take the merchant’s place, hauling the unconscious man upwards with frightened force. 

“ _ Gentle! _ Gentle, boy- Can’t you see he’s injured-” the man protests as Shannan struggles to get a grip on the dirty fabric of Sigurd’s coat. 

“Open the door-” Oifey orders, and the man skitters away to comply, holding it steady as the boys make their way across the threshold. 

There are no beds in this empty shell of a house, so they drop him on the wooden floor as soon as they are inside. Seliph, alerted once again by the sound of voices, wails loudly. Oifey turns on the stranger as soon as Sigurd is floorbound, voice a hiss. “Who the hell are you?”

The merchant backs up towards the door. “Only a shopkeep, I swear on it! The green haired man- he came to me with so much gold… with the conflict- I couldn’t afford to refuse-” He continues to back away until he’s on the front step again. “I was asked only to deliver- please, let me be on my way-”

Oifey blinks at him, mind a swirling void. The merchant bows slightly and disappears from sight, practically running back to his cart, tail between his legs. The tactician barely processes the words that Shannan yells after him, but the man does not return, and the sound of wooden wheels grinding on road starts and fades as the door swings on its hinges in the breeze.

“-fey?  _ Oifey! _ ” A hand on his shoulder tugs him back to reality. Shannan looks at him with fearful eyes. “Oifey,  _ what do we do? _ ” 

Sigurd hasn’t moved since they put him down. He lays splayed on his back, legs and arms dashed across the floor like a macabre snow angel, slowly continuing to ooze blood into the floorboards. The fingers on his sword arm twitch, and Oifey bites his tongue as he realizes that the bend in his arm is far lower than his elbow. A soft, high-pitched whistle sounds every time he breathes, and the noise is only further upsetting Seliph; the baby being blissfully unaware of the panic that was soon to come. 

“We need to make sure he doesn’t die.”

“Of course- but how? I don’t know anything about healing!”

“Me neither. Go get some water from the well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lewyn: sigurd has been found dead in miami.  
> oifey/shannan: is he ok?  
> lewyn: yeah but he's dead
> 
> i have not planned any further than this please dont expect good things from me. but also please leave a comment and maybe check out my other works??? happy holidays and also new year soon!


	2. sōlācium

“Take it all, young man. I have no more use for any of it… I don’t think my son is returning from the war… and I can’t bear the thought of keeping his things around any longer…” The old woman sighs sadly as she hands over the heavy burlap sack. Shannan shoulders it with a grunt and a ‘thank you’, promising to repay her later before racing back to the house. 

The remains of what was once Sigurd’s clothes are still in the backyard, smoldering slowly next to the well; poisoning their remaining drinking water. Shannan kicks the still-warm pile out of his way as he fumbles with the door, shouldering his way inside as the latch clicks.

It still smells bad in here, despite the orange peels Oifey is burning in the small hearth. 

The boy in question sits at the table, attempting to play some sort of game with Seliph. He looks up from a dour attempt at “peek-a-boo” as his partner dumps the bag on the floor with a huff.

“You got some?”

“Yeah,” Shannan says, wiping his nose with his sleeve, “The old woman at the end of the street… she gave me all of her son’s clothes.”

Oifey raises an eyebrow. “Surely… her son won’t be happy with that?”

“I think… he passed. In the war. She wasn’t clear about it, and I didn’t want to ask.”

A frown crosses Oifey’s face as he stands, scooping Seliph into his arms and picking his way across the room to the crib. Bowls of water and piles of torn curtains remain strewn across the floor, all of which are colored with the pinks and reds of days-old blood. The object of this ritual remains where he had fallen- splayed on his back and wheezing loudly with every breath. 

Shannan had only been gone for a few minutes, but for some reason, he expected things to be better when he got back. 

“Has he woken at all?”

“No- not a peep. He didn’t even twitch when I… finished with his eye.” Oifey says, clearly biting back the bile in his throat. The young man would never be able to look at spoons or gelatin the same way again. 

Shannan dumps the contents of the bag on the floor. Simple but sturdy peasant clothing spills out- clearly well used, but tough enough to survive winters on end. He pulls a shirt out of the pile, holding it up and appraising it. “Uh… this should fit him, right?” He sifts around some more grabbing a pair of pants by the leg. “These might be a bit short though…”

“Good enough- toss them here, would you?”

Oifey catches the flying cloth deftly, and gets to work unwrapping the bloody curtains that were currently serving as Sigurd’s bedding.

\---

“Do you think he’s eaten anything since the battle?” Oifey wonders as he crushes an apple into sludge for the sake of Seliph’s distinguished palette. The supplies that the merchant left behind have been nothing short of blessing; they wouldn’t last forever, but starvation was not something the boys would have to worry about for months.

“He hasn’t eaten anything here, so… probably not.” Shannan answers with a grunt. The bloodstains refuse to leave the floorboards, no matter how hard they scrub. “It’s been… it’s been more than a week. If he doesn’t eat something soon, he’ll die…” They could make him drink, but forcing food into an unconscious person’s mouth was a surefire way to choke them. Oifey frowns in response, pausing his apple mashing.

“Do you think we should try to wake him?” Shannan asks. 

“How?”

“Uh- Well- I’m not sure…” Jostling and shaking the man while they tended to his wounds had no effect, and Shannan wasn’t about to  _ slap _ him…

The two boys didn’t have to wait long.

Barely an hour later, as they watch Seliph shovel crushed apple gunk into his mouth with his tiny hands, they hear a new sound. A fast sound. A high pitched, grating, painful sound, coming from the pile of curtains on the floor.

“Lord Sigurd?” Shannan squeaks, leaning over the man and putting a light hand on his shoulder. Something in the pile rushes up to meet him, colliding squarely with his jaw, crushing his tongue between his teeth with a sickening grinding sound. The boy reels as the curtains are wildly kicked away, and Oifey yanks Shannan back roughly in order to get him out of Sigurd’s destructive path. Legs still tangled in the bedding, the knight doesn’t get far- scrambling halfway across the room before collapsing again; his high wheezing breaths reaching a new, agonizing pitch. 

The wooden chair leg the boys had converted into an arm splint thuds against the floor as Sigurd hauls himself up again, continuing his crawl. 

“ _ Hey! _ ” Oifey drops Shannan, who lays back on the floor, cradling his bruising jaw in his hands. The tactician darts ahead, blocking Sigurd’s path with his skinny legs as he squats down, hands raised in a placating gesture. The crawling man barely looks at him, his glazed eye darting around the room as he attempts to bowl the boy over on his quest forwards. 

The hand Oifey places on his shoulder is smacked away with a cough, but Sigurd’s body does not share his mind’s one-track determination, and he falls to the floor yet again, limbs sprawling as he blinks in confusion. 

“Lord Sigurd! Stop- please- you’ll rip your bandages-” Oifey begs, righting himself. His voice cracks loudly in panic. “You’re okay! You’re alright! We’re safe!”

Sigurd doesn’t move, content with continuing to lay on his front, taking deep breaths. He looks from Oifey, to the floor, to the wall, to Shannan, and back to Oifey again, and some of the tension leaves his face. 

“O..ifey…”

“Y-yeah. Yes sir, it’s me. And Shannan,” he breathes, nodding his head towards where Shannan sits with one hand massaging his jaw. Shannan waives slightly, unsure of what to do. He doesn’t want to get punched again.

“What… W...here…” Every word out of Sigurd’s mouth is a wheeze, painful and dry. He coughs when he’s finished. 

“We’re in Tirnanog, exactly where you said to go- we’re safe here… no one has come to question or bother us since we got here. We’re okay,” Oifey says, offering his hand to Sigurd. The man winces as he extends his splinted arm, which falls to the ground with a low thud.

“Shannan, give me a hand-”

The boys manage to haul Sigurd back to his “bed” without trouble. He doesn’t argue as they smother him in the curtain again, content with running his fingers through his singed hair. He frowns as his hand, mitted with bandages, passes over the ruins of his eye, but he doesn’t say anything, even as Oifey hands him a cup of water and some manner of dried meat.

“You have to eat… it’s been a week since the battle, and you haven’t done so since then-” Shannan is cut off by Sigurd sitting up again, this time a little more steadily. He balances himself on his uninjured elbow, eye wide.

“A... w...eek?”

“Uh… about a week, yes…”

“E-everyone…?”

Oifey shakes his head in Sigurd’s blind spot, and Shannan puts on a strained smile.

“You don’t need to worry about that right now. What matters is that we’re safe… when you’re feeling better, we’ll tell you all that’s happened.”

Sigurd looks unconvinced, but all that comes out of his mouth is a cough. He leans back slightly, a thoughtful expression on his face, before his gaze snaps to Shannan again. 

“S... eli...ph.”

It’s not a question. It’s a demand. Oifey turns around to where Seliph still sits in one of the chairs, smearing apple gunk all over his face happily- unaware of the chaos. The tactician wipes the baby’s face with a discarded shirt and scoops him into his arms. Seliph squeals happily at the attention, and Sigurd sits up properly, head whipping towards the sound. 

“Easy! Easy- here-” Oifey squats down, passing the squirming child to his father. Sigurd leans back, good arm drawing Seliph close to his chest even as the child tries to crawl away.

“S...eliph…”

The baby coos in response, and Oifey and Shannan make eye contact as the man between them begins to cry. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sam?? skipping over the medical gore scene?? its more likely than you think (but probably not for long, he's not 100% yet)


	3. cavea

Oifey rolls his eyes as the muffled sound of footsteps pass by in the hall yet again. Sigurd isn’t a loud man, at least not anymore, but he’s grown a tendency toward uneasiness that manifests in the worst times. For example, right now. In the middle of the night.

Shannan sniffles loudly in his sleep nearby, and the sound spooks the man in the hall; his footsteps retreating back towards the house’s empty husk of a sitting room. Oifey lets out a sigh as the sound fades, jaw clenched. 

Today had been a bad day. 

The description that the boys were able to provide of the aftermath of the Battle of Belhalla was patchwork and undoubtedly exaggerated, but it was all they had to give. And it was not a gift that Sigurd was willing to accept. 

_ The silence of the house is peaceful now, at least _ , Oifey thinks to himself as he lays on his back, staring at the bared planks of the ceiling above. They ache and foam with mold and water damage, but they hold fast despite the raging storm outside. Wild winds whip the windows occasionally, and they clatter in their frames. Oifey dares one to break. The cleanup might get his mind off of things for a time.

The panes bang again as Oifey picks up a familiar sound, coming from beyond the door. His sigh is audible this time, short and irritated as Sigurd passes by again. He turns over on the hard ground, staring at where Shannan lays a few feet away, fast asleep, mouth catching flies. Clearly, stress had much the opposite effect on the young swordsman. 

The tactician sits up as the cycle outside repeats once more, ratty blanket falling limply to the floor as he rolls his shoulders and shakes out his hair. Shannan would have to visit the market soon; they were nearly out of clean water, and Oifey desperately desired some sort of bath, even if it was with just a rag. The tired boy motivates himself to his feet with a soft groan, frowning as puddles of water from the leaking ceiling chill the undersides of his feet. A droplet lands in his eye as he approaches the door, and he mumbles a half-chewed swear, rubbing at his face in frustration. 

The shuffling continues.

Oifey exits the room quietly, closing it behind him to spare Shannan for the argument that may soon come to pass. He looks down the hall, towards the window at the end, and is unsurprised at the silhouette that blocks the lightning there- wild haired and slouched.

“Lord Sigurd…”

The man turns to face Oifey. His frown is evident; perhaps apologetic. “Did I wake-”

“No… No. I’ve been up. Why are you wandering around at this hour?” Oifey whispers, approaching. Sigurd uncurls a bit, and a tuft of something blue pokes out from the bedding held tightly to his chest.

“Ah… Seliph was being fussy… so I thought I would try to calm him down…” The window pane at the end of the hall bangs in response to Sigurd’s indicated plea, and Seliph gurgles angrily. “A storm like this must be terrifying for him… he’s never seen anything like it…” Sigurd continues, “At least… not up close. Stone castles aren’t quite as loud during harsh weather.” 

A thunderclap makes the taller man jump, and the baby squeaks as the arm around him clenches tightly. Oifey holds out his hands. “Perhaps, you would allow me?”

The knight hesitates, but does not deny Oifey’s wish, handing the baby over with the utmost care. Seliph’s eyes are squinting and angry in the low light, and Oifey shushes him as he leads the charge back to the prince’s crib. 

He makes a sharp turn at the end of the hall, however, and Sigurd follows him to the kitchen without question. Sitting heavily at the small table, he places Seliph on his knee as his leg begins to bounce. Sigurd sits across from him, staring emptily at his son, who stops sniffling to glance curiously around the room. 

“So.”

“...So.”

“... Having trouble sleeping?” Oifey supplies, one eyebrow raised. 

Sigurd does not fix him with a glare as he would have before; instead he leans forward, resting his unburnt cheek on the palm of his hand with a groan. His other arm, still splinted and wrapped in a sling that matches his bedding, clunks softly against the side of the table. 

“...A bit. Seliph refuses to rest- and the windows won’t stop clattering-”

The glass answers him with a meteoric bang, and Sigurd’s jaw clenches as he jumps in his seat; legs making contact with the underside of the table. Seliph makes a sound that borders on a wail, before deciding against it and descending into babbling once again.

“Yes, well, this house doesn’t seem like it’s built for storms like this. Maybe that’s why the previous owners left?”

Oifey conjures up half of a cheeky smile, only to be rewarded with nothing in return. Despite the joke, they both know why this house was abandoned. Why many homes in Isaach lay empty and cold. Sigurd settles back into his chair, one socked foot propped up on his knee. “At least-” he pauses to cough into the palm of his hand, “-we won’t have to worry about water for the time being.” They would have to boil it before use, but the well was surely full by now. 

“This is true. Between storm water and food, we could say here for weeks without needing to visit a market…”

Sigurd frowns at that. “...Weeks?”

“Well… yeah. We need to lay low for now. We don’t know who knows what, so if we want to stay alive… we should disappear for the time being.”

Anger, still festering from earlier in the day, breaks through on Sigurd’s face. “I cannot sit idly by as  _ that man _ -”

Oifey winces as Seliph whimpers. Sigurd lowers his voice to a hiss.

“- _ that man  _ struts around thinking he can frame me for treason and get away with it. Not to mention Deirdre-” Another thunderclap cuts him off. The knight pinches the bridge of his nose with fingers he pretends aren’t shaking. “I can’t just leave her there. If he’s so willing to do such terrible things to his friends, I can’t imagine what horrors he’s bestowed upon his…” Sigurd’s face twists in disgust, “ _...wife. _ ”

Seliph stops whining, voice tapering off into silence as the sound of rain continues to patter against the windows. Oifey leans over, and is relieved to see that the child has finally descended into a sleepy half-calm. Sigurd sighs, eyes drifting to his son. 

“He needs his mother, Oifey. I have to go back for her.”

“I know, Lord Sigurd. I want to see her rescued too… as does Shannan… but we don’t have the strength. As far as we know, you and Prince Lewyn are the only survivors or the battle… and we don’t even know where he is. If you couldn’t rescue her with a full army, what can you possibly do all on your own?”

Sigurd doesn’t respond, and Oifey traces his empty gaze out the window, past the lightning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new year gamers lets hope our next few months are better than sigurd's are about to be


	4. ignōminia

Sigurd doesn’t try to make a break for it. At least, not yet. He goes to sleep that night perturbed and unconvinced, but when he wakes, he makes no attempt to bolt for the door, or convince the others to take up arms and follow him back to Grannvale on foot.

In fact, the only notable thing the man does during the next week is pass Shannan a note as the boy prepares to make a short trip to the market. Oifey tries to catch a glance at it, but his friend is out the door just a moment later, and Sigurd has already retreated to the washroom to rebandage his burns. Not quite knowing what to do with himself without Shannan to talk to, Oifey follows his Lord. 

The door is ajar, and Sigurd pays him little mind as he lines his supplies up on the floor in front of the fallen mirror; sitting down heavily when he’s done. This house does not have the luxury of running water, so to call this a washroom is a bit of an overstatement. There’s a bucket of clean towels in one corner and a pile of dirty ones in another, as well as a wooden tub that Oifey doubts can actually hold water. The mirror had been rescued from one of the house's closets, and is now balanced against the side of the tub. The surface of it is covered in cracks and grime, but it’s all they have.

Sigurd catches his eye in the reflection and pauses. “Oifey?” The boy backs away slightly. “Oh, you can come in, if you want. I could use some help, actually- Could you get me a bowl of water? There should still be a bit left from this morning…”

The tactician nods and wanders over to the kitchen once more. There is indeed water left over from breakfast, sitting in a large pot over the rusted stove. The coals are still a bit hot, so Oifey carefully fills the bowl before blowing out the remaining flickers. Leaving an unattended fire burning in a wooden hovel was sure to spell trouble.

The bandages are already starting to pile up when Oifey returns. Placing the bowl on the ground, he reaches out into the hall for one of the buckets meant to catch last night’s rain. After dumping the water out of the bathroom’s broken window, he begins the task of gathering the rejected gauze. It crunches uncomfortably in his hand; the dried blood and pus forming a thick layer on each piece. He takes one of the clean towels for himself before offering one to Sigurd, who accepts it without complaint. Unsure of what else he can do to help, Oifey hovers awkwardly as he watches Sigurd cut away the fabric wrapped around most of his face with a pair of broken scissors. The man’s face is twisted with apprehension as the tool shakes slightly in his hand.

Not wanting to seem uncomfortable, Oifey takes a seat on the floor next to Sigurd, gathering the clean bandages in his lap. “What did you ask Shannan to get at the market?”

Sigurd doesn’t break eye contact with the mirror as he begins to unwrap the cloth. “Uh- just a few things… I asked him to look for burn salves if possible…” He cuts himself off with a hiss as the gauze directly touching his wound sticks to his face; glued in place by days of dried fluid. “Hand me a wet towel, if you could-”

Oifey does so, and Sigurd presses it to the bandages, re-soaking them until they separate from the ruined flesh beneath; peeling off with a sticky, painful sound. The knight grimaces, throwing the trash into the bucket with a groan. “I also asked him to get more bandages… or at least something that can be used as such. We’re running out of curtains to destroy.”

“I asked for those too, as well as some blankets. It gets cold here at night, especially when it rains…”

“Smart,” Sigurd mumbles, starting on the next layer of wrappings. “I also asked him to look for-” he physically winces this time as the bandage tears a thick scab from the bridge of his nose, which immediately begins to ooze with fresh blood. “-look for anything we can use to disguise ourselves… should we need to move. Clothes and the like.” 

“Mmm. Makes sense. But… we didn’t bring that much money with us… do you think he’ll be able to get everything we need?”

“Don’t worry about that. I told him to sell my blade, and that should be more than enough to buy all those things and an iron replacement.” The silver sword had served Sigurd well during the war and had remained his faithful companion even as he was dragged from the battlements of Belhalla. Oifey would have argued against getting rid of such a useful tool... but it was clear that Arvis’s gift was no longer welcome in this house.

The snipping of scissors fills the somber quiet of the room for a while, interrupted by a mumbled swear or two as Sigurd continues unwrapping his face and arms. Oifey reaches over to untangle the chair leg splint from its bindings as Sigurd finally puts the blades down, the last bandages making their way to the trash bucket sloppily. 

“Oh…” Sigurd scoots closer to the mirror, hand hovering near the empty socket of his right eye. The skin droops, unsupported and sad over the empty space, and Sigurd’s reflection flashes with fear as the eyelid opens just a bit to reveal the exposed, red cavern inside. He slams his hand over the spot in horror, looking from the mirror to Oifey for an explanation.

“It… mostly melted. It was pretty gross, so we… got rid of it before you woke up.”

“I… I see.” He swallows audibly. “Do I need to… do anything to it? To uh… make sure it doesn’t get infected?” Unlike his sister, Sigurd was never attuned to the medical arts, and his worry was clear as day.

Oifey dunks one of the clean towels into the water before handing it over. “I think… just avoid touching the inside, and wipe it down to keep the blood and such out.”

Sigurd is content to sit with the warm cloth held to his face for a while, contemplating. In the meantime, Oifey begins to unwrap and cut more cloth, lining up the strips on the side of the tub for later. The knight still hasn’t moved by the time he finishes, his face a mask of distress.

“Lord Sigurd, do you want me to do it?” Oifey isn’t looking forward to touching the injury again, but leaving it out in open air would do more harm than good.

“No- no I can,” Sigurd jumps back to attention, fumbling a bit with the towel as he pats at the spot gently. The cloth comes away spotted with brown and yellow, and the knight balls it up in his fist before chucking it into the corner to join it’s filthy brethren. The unsightly wound is then bound tightly, and Oifey is relieved to see that no red spots appear in the clean fabric. Infection was always a worry, but at least most of the wounds seem to be closed…

Sigurd takes care of the rest of his injuries with little fanfare, only pausing again once his shirt is rebuttoned and all the supplies have been gathered again. He glares at himself in the mirror before reaching behind him to where Oifey stands, arms burdened with towels to be cleaned. 

“Kick me the scissors, will you?”

Oifey does, and Sigurd catches them before they can jab him in the leg. 

“What are you going to do with those?”

Sigurd gives his reflection an appraising look before ruffling his hair with his hand. It’s clean thanks to the leftover storm water and some soap they had scrounged up from a cupboard, but it remains wild and singed at the ends. His bangs, overgrown now, hang in his vision as he squints at his face in the mirror. 

“I’m getting rid of the burnt ends; they still smell from time to time, and it’s driving me up the wall,” He mumbles, grabbing a fistfull of hair while lining up the crooked blades. Oifey leaves him to it, wandering out of the room and through the house, passing Seliph on his way outside. He leaves the pile of to-be-cleaned cloth by the door, smiling at the now-awake baby on his way back to the bathroom. Seliph reaches for him, toddling on his stubby legs as he leans against the bars of his infant prison. He squeals in confusion as Oifey turns away from him and the teenager smiles to himself. 

At least someone among them was in relatively good spirits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im finishing fe4 tonight wish me luck
> 
> also, im unsure how long this fic will be, im undecided whether i want to cut if off at the end of the intermission, or go further than that lol


	5. prīncipātus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a more lighthearted chapter before i get my suffering gun back out
> 
> thank you all for your patience with this chapter! i participated in febuwhump 2021 so i took a break for that! maybe check those fics out too if you like this one? they mostly have the same vibe lol

“What… what is this, exactly?”

Shannan doesn’t answer as he busies himself with organizing the supplies he’d brought back from the market; a sack of isaachian clothing, medical tools and gauze, cheap weaponry, and other such items. Oifey holds the small bottle in his hands up to the light. The thick liquid inside stains the walls of the container a murky brown, and the tactician frowns. 

“Surely… this isn’t something meant to be drunk… correct?”

Shannan looks up in confusion, finally realizing that he’s being addressed. He searches Oifey with a questioning gaze before his eyes land on the bottle. He stands up with a hand outstretched. 

“No- no don’t drink that… you’ll be sick for weeks… give it here,” he says as Oifey hands it over. It’s about the size and shape of a vulnerary, but when the other boy uncorks it, the smell is far stronger. Oifey gags.

“ _ Poison? _ Shannan, why in Naga’s name do we need-”

“No! Not poison, it’s dye!”

“Oh… what a terrible smell… what is it made of, to smell like that?” Oifey takes a step back, a hand covering his nose as he glares at the bottle.

Shannan thankfully replaces the cork as his friend coughs and waves his other hand in front of his face. “I think they make it out of wyvern blood… that’s how they get it to be so strong…”

“Why do we need dye that kills people with its smell?”

“We’re in disguise, remember?” Shannan raises a brow as he cradles the bottle in his hands. “If you- or Lord Sigurd- want to blend in, especially in an Isaachian rural village… Well, let’s just say neither of you exactly look the part…”

“...and the poison helps… how?”

“Dye, Oifey. Hair dye.”

Oifey processes the other boy’s words before narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “You… wait- that’s supposed to go in people’s hair?”

“That’s what the vendor told me.”

Oifey can’t hide his disgust. Shannan puts the bottle on a nearby table. 

“I mean, they can’t be suspicious of me once I  _ kill them _ via  _ smell _ -”

“The smell washes out, obviously,” Shannan rolls his eyes. “Besides, truthfully, this is more for Lord Sigurd than it is for you. He sticks out like a sore thumb, but you could probably blend in decently with just a change of clothes… Your hair color is pretty common around the world, after all.”

Something about being described as ‘common’ gives Oifey pause, but he doesn’t say anything, especially once Shannan starts piling clothing into his arms and giving instructions on how to wear them. 

\---

Shannan almost does a double take when Sigurd reappears from the washroom, half empty bottle of dye in his hand. 

“Er- well, I think I did it right. Do you want it, Oifey?”

“I… I think I’ll wait, thanks.”

Sigurd wanders back into the small room and returns with free hands. The sling around his arm, now made of white cotton instead of filthy curtain remains, is spotted with black- the same color as his hair, which no longer hangs disheveled in his face. The clothing and hairstyles of Isaach do not suit him, Shannan muses to himself. Combined with his injuries, he looks like someone’s ill uncle left out too long in the desert. 

But, Shannan realises with a feeling of misplaced pride, he does  _ not _ look like Sigurd of Chalphy. And that is what’s important. 

The hearth is burning hot as the chill of the night settles in. Sigurd sits down in front of it next to Shannan, taking Seliph as he goes. The boy is already asleep and remains that way, even as he is passed around the circle like a trinket.

“So…” Oifey starts, his voice fading and dying as he goes. 

Shannan picks up his dropped sentence deftly. “... you two aren’t done yet. With disguises, I mean.”

“I just said, I don’t really want to use-”

“Not the dye,” Shannan interrupts, waving off Oifey’s rebuttal. “I mean… well, the two of you should probably consider adopting names that sound more local. At least for when you’re outside the house.” He looks at Sigurd sympathetically. “Especially you… everyone on Jugdral knows your name by now.”

Sigurd nods. “That would be the smart thing to do… but… will you be doing the same? I’m afraid that ‘Prince Shannan’ is now quite the household name as well…”

Shannan grins. “Oh, I know… and I already have one picked out.”

“Oh?” Oifey raises a brow as he prods the fire with a rusted poker. “Let’s hear it then.”

“I think Shannam will do nicely.”

Sigurd snorts loudly enough to disturb Seliph. “I- That’s only one letter! Not very convincing, if you ask me.”

“You know, I’d agree with you,” Shannan continues, a laugh coloring his language, “but the thing is, Shannam is actually a pretty common Isaachian name!”

“No, that can’t be… that’s silly…”

“It’s the truth! I was schooled alongside about five other boys named Shannam when I was very young… it got confusing very fast…”

“Gods above, I can imagine…” 

“And the best part is that no one on the planet would assume that I, Shannan, would pick such a stupidly similar name as my disguise. It’s perfect!”

“Foolish enough to work,” Oifey remarks, eyebrows raised as he stares into the fire. “But what about us? I don’t know any Isaachian names…”

“Well, here- I know quite a few…” Shannan sighs as he closes his eyes, thinking hard. What had the other boys from his early childhood been named..? He searched his memories for the faces of the commoner children he had played with.

“Oifey. Hm… well, I think it would definitely help to pick names on the short side… They’ll be easier to remember that way…”

“I mean, we could always write them down…” Oifey remarks, patting the small notebook that rests in his pocket. He’d been carrying it throughout the war, and it would continue to serve him until the very end. A tactician is only as good as his tools, afterall. 

“It would be rather suspicious for you to be looking at a notebook every time you tried to say your name, Oifey!”

“Well- I mean,” he stammers, “Perhaps the first few times, but…”

“He’s right- If you pull out your notes every time you speak with someone, they’ll think you're about to collect their taxes,” Sigurd smiles. Oifey rolls his eyes. 

“Alright, perhaps. Something short and memorable then. And common. Remember- common names only.”

“Of course… let’s see…” Shannan scratches his chin as he studies Oifey’s face. The other boy averts his eyes, looking hard at the fire. “You look like you could be… an Oran.”

“Oran? But that’s so simple!”

“Isn’t that the point?”

Oifey glances back up to his friend. “Well, yes… but it doesn’t sound particularly Isaachian…”

“Well, that’s because it’s a commoner’s name! How many commoner Isaachians have you met?”

“Well…” Oifey pauses to think, “Er- well… not many, to be honest.”

“Chulainn is-” Sigurd pauses to clear his throat, “was… from Isaach. You met him a few times, I think?”

“Oh… was he? I never would have known… But I never spoke with him outside of combat, to be honest…” Oifey muses. The use of past tense hangs between them like a noose.

Shannan breaks the silence, turning to Sigurd.

“For you, Lord Sigurd, how’s about… Cahal? Short and easy to remember.”

Sigurd nods, readjusting his grip on Seliph. “I mean- you know better than I what will work… If you say it’s good, then it’s good for me.” He pauses for a moment, glancing over to the boys, “But you should both probably stop referring to me with a title… that’s a sure giveaway.” 

His gaze becomes sad for a moment, his eyelid drooping. “Besides… as far as Chalphy goes… there’s not much to go back to at the moment… I don’t think ‘Lord’ is a title that exists anymore… at least for now.”

Oifey hums quietly in agreement, and Shannan nods. Yes… this was no place for formality. For now, they would just be three commoners trying to make their way in a rapidly changing world... 

Sigurd sighs as he gets to his feet. 

“I… I think I’ll get some rest. I’m not quite feeling like myself at the moment…” He trails off into a mumble as he deposits Seliph in his bedding before wandering off towards the back of the house to find a comfortable patch of floor to occupy for a few hours. 

Oifey brings his knees to his chin, curling up into a ball. Shannan scoots a bit closer to him, mimicking his position. It feels good to be held, even if it’s by himself. He can almost imagine that Ayra is…

“How long do you think we’re gonna have to keep this up..?” Oifey whispers.

“...I don’t know. It’s not safe for us to go out in the open right now…”

“You’re the prince though… surely we’ll be safe if we’re with you?”

Shannan shakes his head. “The king is dead… I can’t rule on my own. Not when Grannvale is as powerful as it is now… It’s more likely that I’ll poke my head out only to be assassinated a day later…”

“Oh… well, we definitely don’t want that…”

“Exactly. Until I’m strong enough to take back Isaach… we’ll just have to wait.”

“Well,” Oifey says, glancing at the other boy, “You won’t have to do it alone. I’ll help you.”

“You’re training to be a tactician, not a swordsman… You’d be in a lot of danger, on the battlefield…”

“I know. But I’ve been thinking these last few days… What we need right now isn’t a bookworm or a mathematician… we’re gonna need strong soldiers if we want to take back what’s ours. Especially since…” Oifey lowers his voice even further, and Shannan leans in to hear, “we’ve lost so many… almost everyone, I think.”

“...Almost everyone… yeah… but... Lewyn is still alive- we know that for sure. Maybe there are others..?”

“We can hope. But for now… it’s best to assume the worst,” Oifey sighs. “I’m going to start taking arms training more seriously from now on. I need to get stronger, so I can protect everyone. After all… it will be a long time before Lo- I mean- Sigurd can fight again- since none of us know healing magic… If Grannvale comes knocking, I want to be able to do something about it.”

The fireplace crackles and pops, sending sparks towards their feet. Oifey grinds the glowing particles down into ash with his heel.

“Well… I’m still learning the sword… but I can teach you, if you like,” Shannan remarks as he buries his face in the crook of his elbow. “O-of course, if you’d rather wait for Sigurd-”

Oifey’s head jerks up for a moment before settling back down into his arms. “No, no I’d like that. I’d like you to teach me,” he says, smiling slightly. 

Shannan’s chest feels strange, as if something was scratching at the inside of his ribs, begging to be let out. He swallows the strange sensation and nods.

“I’d love to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i eat comments like a starving man


	6. diuturnitās

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oifey probably had a little bit of sword training but like. that doesnt mean hes good at it.

“Are you ready?”

“No!  _ Hold on _ for the love of-”

“Too bad!  _ Here I come! _ ”

Oifey blocks the incoming attack with a confused yell, his arms shaking as the shock of being hit sends tremors throughout his body. He holds the other boy at bay for a moment, sliding backwards in the dirt slightly as the prince throws his weight down upon his opponent. As soon as the pressure from Shannan’s sword lifts, his limbs become jelly, and he soon finds himself hitting the ground, backside first. His tailbone screams in agony for the fifth time that afternoon. 

“You’re putting too much effort into your blocks. You should be looking for opportunities to cast my blows aside, not hold them in front of your face until your wrists break,” Shannan states matter-of-factly.

“I wasn’t ready… I wasn’t ready yet…” Oifey wheezes, rolling onto his side with a hand on his bruising back. Dirt clouds attack his nose, and he sneezes forcefully.

“Well, on the battlefield, the enemy isn’t going to wait for you to get your bearings before attacking,” Shannan says, jabbing Oifey lightly in the side with his sword, which is thankfully still in its sheath. “Boop! See, you’re dead now. I killed you.”

“Please… just do it for real… I can’t take it anymore…”

“Don’t quit on me now, Oifey! We just started!”

“We’ve been at this for an hour!”

“An hour,” Shannan makes a derisive noise, “That’s just a warm-up… Most knights train basically all day, you know.”

“Sig- no wait, uh- Cahal- help me out here...” Oifey gasps, flopping onto his stomach and searching the yard for the man who was  _ supposed _ to be supervising their practice. 

“You know we only have to use those names when we’re among strangers, right?”

“I know that… but if I don’t practice, then I’ll fuck it up at the worst possible time…” Oifey grumbles, urging himself onto his hands and knees and shaking dust and grass out of his hair. 

“You’ve been swearing a lot lately,” Shannan says, holding out a hand for Oifey to take. The other boy grabs onto it, but not before giving it an offended stare, as if worried that it might whack him with the sword again.

“I’ve had a lot to swear about, in all fairness.”

“Well, yes, but… you used to be so uptight about that kind of thing…”

Hauled to his feet, Oifey stumbles a bit as his back argues against gravity. He makes no motion to pick his fallen weapon back up, instead spinning around to search the small yard. “Where… where did he go?”

“Sigurd?”

“Yeah, is he over there?”

“Uh…” Shannan trots over to the side of the house before shaking his head and coming back. “He’s not over here… Maybe he went inside? He probably went back to sleep; he looked rough this morning.”

Oifey is tempted to remark on the fact that they  _ all _ look rough  _ every _ morning, but bites down on his cheek lightly instead. No, this newfound layer of sarcasm would not color all of his words. At least, not yet.

“Ah… perhaps…” He muses quietly.

“Hey Oifey.”

“Mmm?”

“Think fast.”

The other boy’s sword swings across his vision as a blur, barely avoidable even with proper warning. It clips Oifey’s shoulder with a thud before bouncing off, leaving what would soon be yet another aching bruise in its place. 

“Wh- Shannan! Give it a rest for a second, will you?!”

“The enemy does not know the meaning of rest! Pick up your sword or be slain!”

Oifey throws back his head with a guttural groan of suffering before scooping up his abandoned weapon. “Fine- one more spar, and then I’m going to go bother Seliph. At least he doesn’t attack me with swords…”

“You asked me to train you!”

“I didn’t think we’d start at such a high difficulty… I barely know how to hold a sword and here you are, swinging at me like I’ve eaten your baby-”

“If you had eaten my baby, I’d take the sword out of its sheath, stupid.”

“Oh, and  _ I’m _ the rude one now?” Oifey groans before planting his feet firmly on the ground and readying his sword. “Okay… now I’m ready. Hit me.”

Shannan grins, dropping into a low stance. He reminds Oifey of a puppy ready to play, aside from the sword being brandished at his face-

“Alright, here I come!”

Oh no, he’d let his mind wander again-

The ground is still quite hard, his lower back confirms with a thud.

\---

“Better, right?”

Seliph rattles the bars of his newly repaired crib in response, standing up on his chubby legs as he investigates the improvements to his child-proofed prison. He reaches between the thin wooden panels, grabbing at the air between himself and his father; Sigurd smiles, offering his hand to the baby, who snatches it instantly. 

He sits there silently, observing the toddler with a despondent gaze 

Obviously, a lot of things in Sigurd’s life could be going better, but if there was one thing that was destined to drive him mad before anything else, it was boredom. Being in hiding was mind-numbingly dull when the only activities available were ‘take care of baby’ and ‘take care of self’.

At Chalphy, or even when the army was marching, there was always someone to talk to… if he ever tired of one person’s company, he would simply seek out someone else… But here..? Shannan is a good kid, and Sigurd loves Oifey like a brother, but… it’s not the same as talking to his friends. 

What he wouldn’t give to see them again...

The knight sighs as Seliph lets out a string of incoherent syllables. 

News about survivors had dwindled to nothing quickly, and now, only three weeks into hiding, even the Battle of Belhalla itself was starting to slip from the minds of the village folk. There was a disaster. A lot of people died. But no one that the villagers knew… so once the novelty of the thing had passed… they went back to their daily lives. They had their own problems, given the aftermath of the war, so the deaths of a few nobles at the hands of a foreign power was not their concern. 

Sigurd refrains from asking people what they know, at least for now. On the few occasions when he goes outside, the villagers already look at him curiously, as if trying to assess whether he truly belongs there… They don’t recognize him, of course, but perhaps he had just been away during the war… That’s what he tells them, at least. The injuries make the story that much more convincing.

Yes… his name is Cahal. He’s here with his three sons after serving Isaach in the war- and he’s finally returning from duty to his wife’s old abandoned family home… yes, they all died in the war too- thank you for your condolences… Why is the baby’s hair such a strange color? Oh, nothing to worry about- his grandfather had hair like that too, perhaps he was a foreigner? 

Sigurd runs through the manufactured story of his life one more time as Seliph tugs his hand closer to the crib. He takes the hammer he’d been holding and drops it to the floor, out of the baby’s inquisitive reach. 

The sunbeams scattered across the floor have moved since he’d first sat down… it must be around midday now...

“Hey now… are you hungry?”

Seliph gurgles as he bites the side Sigurd’s palm. He’s got teeth now, so it hurts a bit, but Sigurd doesn’t pull away, not when the boy seems to be enjoying himself so much-

A throb of pain races through the knight’s head, and he squeezes his eye shut. 

Headaches… they’ve been getting worse and worse with each passing day… 

Delicately, he removes his hand from Seliph’s mouth, wiping it on the front of his shirt as he goes. He brings it to his head, rubbing the heel of his palm into the socket of his missing eye in order to alleviate some of the pain- but that only makes it worse. He can feel the heat emanating off the wound through the bandages, uncomfortably hot to the point that it makes his face sweat. 

The stress of everything must be making the pain worse, he assumes to himself as he rubs circles into the gauze that covers the worst of the injury. If it doesn’t get better by nightfall… then he’d allow himself to be worried-

“Da!”

Seliph reaches for him again, and he manages half of a smile. 

“I know, I know… Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you… Why don’t I find you something to eat?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sure he's fine
> 
> kudos perhapse? maybe even a commente??


	7. obsequium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a little more setup before i kick this shit into a (mildly) higher gear

“Who’s that?”

“Who’s who?”

“Him.” Shannan tilts his head towards the window. 

Out in the middle of the street stands a man, staring blankly at the house in front of him. Or rather, Oifey assumes his stare is blank. A thick metal helmet covers his eyes, matching the rest of his steel gear. One hand rests casually on the sword tied at his belt. The two boys crouch out of sight, staring back.

“I… I don’t know. Do we know anyone with armor like that?”

“I’m not sure… I can’t get a better look from down here… I need to stand up to see-”

“Don’t! We don’t want him to see  _ us _ !”

The man in the street begins to walk, eyes still trained on the house.

“Where- where’s he going?” Shannan asks, squatting further down as he crawls across the floor, tracking the man as he begins to walk around the side of the building. 

“Towards the back door; you locked it when you came in, right?”

“I don’t remember!”

Oifey sucks in a breath. “Gods above… I hope he’s not here to rob us.”

“I mean. If he is, what do we have to give him? That’s a best case scenario; we hand over a couple oranges and send him on his way.”

“Still…”

A knock clatters against the front door. Had he walked back around..?

Footsteps from the hall draw the boys’ attention. “Who is that?” 

Sigurd squints out the window, thankfully hidden from the visitor’s view by the shadows of the unlit house. He continues wiping his hands on a dirty towel, a sure sign that his afternoon ritual of bandaging and rebandaging his wounds had been interrupted by the mysterious stranger. 

“We don’t know,” whispers Shannan, shuffling forwards on his hands and knees. Oifey follows suit, creeping into the kitchen to grab his sword, where it stands at attention by the back door. “It’s a man in armor, with a helmet and a weapon and everything.”

“A weapon..?” That gives Sigurd pause. He tosses the towel into the depths of the dark washroom before stepping out into the meager light. Shannan notes that his own weapon is already hanging at his side- he’s taken to carrying it practically everywhere now, to the boys’ chagrin and concern. “I’ll-”

He is cut off by another knock at the door and a muffled call of “Is anyone in there?”

“I’ll answer it. Get up off the floor- you look like a bunch of criminals hiding from the law…”

“I mean if you want to split hairs,” Shannan mumbles. Oifey groans as he stands, his muscles still sore from what was now almost a week of training.

Sigurd glances once around the room before opening the door. The man on the doorstep angles his head up at him, taking a step back. His sabatons clank against the rough stone of the stoop. Sigurd moves to take up the space the man had vacated, blocking his entrance to the house. Shannan can’t see the visitor’s eyes behind his helm, but the angle of his head suggests that he does, in fact, see Sigurd’s sword. Thankfully, he doesn’t reach for his own.

“Can I help you?” Sigurd’s tone is businesslike. Friendly, even. The same tone he speaks with at the market.

The armored man rests a hand on his hip. “Yes, I believe you can… mister..?”

Sigurd clears his throat. “Cahal.”

“Mister Cahal.” The stranger rests his other hand on the guard of his sword. It’s not a motion towards violence, but it puts Oifey on edge all the same. “Sorry to bother you… I’m going around the village to ask some routine questions- nothing to be overly concerned about, but if you have a moment?”

Sigurd glances back inside, grabbing the doorknob as he goes. “Why don’t we speak outside? I don’t want to disturb the children-”

“Of course, it’s nothing to be worried about yet, but the local guard has heard rumors lately of-”

The door snaps shut, cutting off the end of the man’s sentence. Oifey and Shannan exchange a look from across the room.

“Uh…” Shannan starts, face unsure. “Is this safe?”

“Oh no, definitely not.” Oifey responds.

“Should we… go out there?”

“No, Si-” Oifey bites his tongue and lowers his voice. Some of the windows are still broken- the man might be able to hear them from here. “Cahal wants us to be in here. That’s why he stepped out.” 

The unspoken agreement of ‘if something goes wrong, we have to grab Seliph and run’ hangs in the air as Oifey fixes the other boy with a meaningful look. Thankfully, the conversation outside doesn’t last long.

“-yes, you as well…” The door creaks open as Sigurd slips back inside. The stranger’s retreating back is easily viewable in the window, and the knight watches him leave before allowing the door to click shut. He lets out a long, deep breath. “Gods above…”

“What did he want?” Oifey asks nervously.

“Yeah, who was he?” Shannan had grabbed Seliph while Oifey’s back was turned, clearly ready to run should the situation turn dire. The child is miraculously silent, content with looking at the ceiling with a vested interest in the dust gathering there. 

“Someone from the center of town, beyond the wall. He’s asking around to see if anyone’s heard tales of… possible spies from Grannvale hiding in the area.”

The walled part of the town was much more densely populated, perhaps akin more to a small city in Oifey’s eyes. That was where the market was, after all. It was rare for the guards to travel out this far into the slums, or rather, they hadn’t seen any guards this far out yet. If they were tightening security due to the war, that might soon change…

“They were… They were looking for us?” Oifey asks, afraid of the answer.

“No. Not us. I don’t think he even recognized that we weren’t from around here; he asked about a woman actually- apparently someone’s been stealing from shops in the city, and no one recognizes her. He wanted to know if we’d seen anyone…” Sigurd blinks hard, bringing a hand to his head. “I told her I haven’t- and that’s the truth, so…”

“Wait- if they’re looking for a thief, then why did you say spy?”

“Um…” Sigurd brushes past Oifey, pulling out a chair at the table and sitting down. “Well, he said that descriptions of her didn’t sound like someone from around here, so the local authority is concerned…”

“Do you…” Shannan starts, his eyes widening slightly, “Do you think she could be another survivor? Did he tell you what she looked like?”

“I asked, but he didn’t know… Apparently the only thing they have to go off of was that she was wearing the clothes of a foreigner,” Sigurd sighs, massaging his temple with his hand. “But it’s a bad idea to get your hopes up, Shannan. In all likelihood, she’s just a citizen of Grannvale smart enough to get out before everything really starts going to hell there…”

“A refugee…”

“Basically.” Sigurd leans back, a weary look on his face. Oifey notes how bloodshot his eye is, and how the bandages on his face are tied a fraction too tight. “Isaach is trying to hunker down as best as it can before the Grannvale army rolls in… no wonder they don’t want foreigners in their cities.”

“Will they come for us?” Oifey wonders aloud. Sigurd shakes his head.

“Not unless you plan on causing a fuss.” He tugs on the collar of his shirt lightly. “We’ve been doing a rather good job of blending in so far, I think. If they were looking for us, they would have found us already.”

“Sigurd is right, Oifey,” Shannan responds, nodding firmly. “As long as we keep our heads down, we have nothing to worry about.”

Oifey scrutinizes Sigurd, who leans forward to dig the heel of his palm into his empty socket, sighing as he goes. He’s pale today. Tired too.

“Hey, uh, Sigurd… are you doing alright?”

“Mmm?” The man’s head jerks up as he blinks at Oifey. “Oh, yes- just a little stressed…”

“Are you sure..? You’re not looking too good…”

Sigurd shakes his head. “Just a headache… I’ll drink some water and be alright by sundown…”

Oifey narrows his eyes, but keeps his mouth shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed! i promise things will get more interesting soon i just gotta get all the boring stuff out of the way first, ya know?
> 
> lemme know what you think in a comment if you have the time!


	8. nōdus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning in this chapter for vomiting and (i guess??) body horror
> 
> as with any medical gore scenes i write i feel obligated to say that if you have something seriously wrong with you (like an infection), please go to the hospital dont be like sigurd

“You’re burning up.”

Oifey’s cold hand slides off of Sigurd’s forehead as the man jumps forward in his seat, alarmed. Shannan and Oifey must be getting better at keeping a light step, or perhaps he simply hadn’t heard the boy approach over the thrumming of the migraine in his skull.

“Don’t- Don’t sneak up on me like that…” He mumbles, closing his eye now that the shock of possible danger has passed. Oifey’s hand returns to his forehead, his touch lighter now.

“Sorry, I just- you’re sick, aren't you? You look sick.”

“It’s nothing… We have medicine now, remember? I’ve been taking care of it.” He’s not lying. He can still taste the bitterness of dried herbs on his tongue. 

“You’ve looked sick all week.”

“I’ve been taking care of it all week.”

The palm of Oifey’s hand is practically freezing. It feels good, even through Sigurd’s sweaty bandages. He leans into it without really thinking. 

“A simple illness should be gone by now, don’t you think?”

“Mmmm… perhaps…”

“Do you want us to ask around the market for something stronger?”

“We don’t have the money to spare for that kind of thing…” Sigurd sighs. Oifey removes his hand again, and the warmth building inside Sigurd’s skull returns with a vengeance. 

“We have a little left… At least a couple thousand gold…”

“We have to save it. In case of an emergency.”

Oifey comes into view fully now, grabbing a dented metal cup from one of the shelves and filling it with water. He places it in front of Sigurd before sitting across from him, face a mask of nervousness. “Illness can  _ become _ an emergency if left untreated…”

“I can treat it just fine with what we have… It will just take longer.”

Oifey sniffles. A long day of practice has left his sinuses clogged with dust yet again. “Perhaps we could find a cleric in town? Just to make sure?”

“You know why we can’t risk that.”

Oifey frowns, eyes downcast towards the table. Sigurd takes a sip from the cup of water. It too feels cold in his grasp, despite being left out for so long. 

“I don’t think a small town doctor would be overly concerned with our lives and identities… they probably barely know anything about-”

“We can’t risk it, Oifey. That’s my final say.” He finishes the cup of water, and it feels like sand as it slides down his throat. 

\---

He takes up his position in front of the mirror that night, long after the children have gone to sleep. He works by candlelight now- it’s easier to ignore steadily mounting problems when they are half-bathed in darkness. 

He lines the salves and bandages and towels up along the side of the sink. He’d hung the mirror the day after he’d found a hammer, so at least he doesn't have to sit on the floor anymore…

He rationalizes that it’s better- more civilized- this way, and tries to ignore the fact that his legs ache with the strain of standing. 

His hands shake when he grabs the scissors. They’re heavy now, much heavier than they were the first time he used them. His wrist wobbles as he raises them to the bandages on his face. 

Too tight. He ties them comfortably every morning, then by the evening, they press into the lines of his face just a bit too firmly, further aggravating his injuries and wearing his skin down into red, itchy patches. He makes a mental note to ask for ice at the market tomorrow… that’s supposed to help with swelling, right? The salves aren’t pulling their weight in that department, but it’s easy to see why. Exports into Isaach, especially of food and medicine, have become rarer since the start of the war; at least, that’s what the villagers say. Sometimes, shops have to sell sugar pills and grass jelly, because they can't afford the real thing anymore…

Sigurd stares at himself in the mirror. The medicine he’d applied earlier in the day is still slick on his face, his skin refusing to absorb even the tiniest bit of it. It remains caked in the pockets of flesh that the burns had left behind, and it shines in the candlelight- highlighting just how disfigured he’s become. 

It’s gotten worse too.

Where he once feared the thought of opening his empty eye, he can’t even dream of doing it anymore. The area around it is so inflamed that he can’t even feel his skin- unless he touches it, that is. Then it jumps to life with a sensation not unlike that of the meteor that put him in this position, burning every nerve on his face so badly that it makes his now-common headaches feel like a cool breath of fresh air. 

A line of ooze drips from under his tightly shut eyelid.

He sniffles a bit before wiping away the pus and old medicine with a towel. 

It’s an infection. A bad one too. 

The kind that kills people, if left unattended for too long. The kind that soldiers fear when they have their legs amputated on the battlefield. The kind that parents mercifully suffocate their infants over when the cost of medicine is simply too high. The kind that requires expert care- the sort only clerics and priests are capable of giving. 

But to call a priest or a cleric here…

It’s simply too big of a risk.

He doesn’t hear the clang of scissors hitting the floor for a few seconds, too preoccupied with staring into the mirror with a gnawing feeling of dread. He searches for them with his eye in the darkness, but he can’t see them in the low light- or has his vision become blurry? He wipes his face with the back of his hand. 

Yes, speckles of blackness appear in the corners of his sight, the static slowly encroaching on his limited field of view with every beat of his heart. It’s fast now, his heartbeat- thundering against his chest nervously as he abandons his quest for the scissors and reaches towards the tap in the sink. Another thing he’d thankfully gotten working in the throes of his boredom-

The smell of medicine and sweat and bile and blood makes his insides twist uncomfortably, and he wrinkles his nose in disgust. He should hurry up, before his legs finally give up on him. The ache that pervades every cell in his body grows stronger as his knees begin to shake. Standing for a long time was difficult now, especially since he’d been on his feet basically all day…

Oh, wait… but he isn’t standing, is he? He can feel the chill of the floor on his knees. When had he..?

He pulls himself to his feet, wavering slightly before the mirror once again. No, now was not the time to pass out. It  _ was _ late at night, but rest would have to wait just a few more moments…

He wipes salve across his ruined eyelid, flinching as he goes. Maybe he just wasn’t using enough of it..?

His stomach flips again, and he curls over the bowl of the sink. The urge to vomit was strong, perhaps not only from the smell-

He drops the gauze, wheeling around only to smack his knees against the side of the still-broken bathtub. He slides down the wall there, gripping the cracked wood for support. He just needed a little rest. He was tired, and stressed. He just-

The vomit he coughs up is watery and slick, just like the meager attempts at soup he’d tried to stomach earlier that day. He squeezes his eye shut as another urge to dry heave hits him- and the sudden movement makes stars explode in his vision as the pain in his head spikes yet again. 

The black static consumes his vision, and for a moment he sits, blinded and terrified, unable to open his mouth lest more bile try to escape. 

But then the pain sweeps over him again, and he can hold the poison down no longer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when i said 'higher gear' i just meant getting back to my regular 'kicking characters down the stairs' content
> 
> he's having one of those days


	9. ulcus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this will (probably) be the last of the "gross" chapters, but just like the previous one, warning for vomiting, serious injury descriptions, etc,, stay safe out there gamers!

A loud thud wakes Oifey from his restless slumber.

The boy blinks as his dreams begin to leak out of his ears, despite how hard he tries to hold onto them. Something about… he’d been talking with someone… another boy… about his and Shannan’s age…

He sighs, closing his eyes again.

Nope. There it goes, thrown from his memory completely.

Oh well… there was nothing to be done about that, as frustrating as it might be. Might as well go back to-

But wait. Hadn’t there been a noise? 

Bumps in the night were not uncommon in this house. The weather was often rough in the way that it threw branches and rocks at their windows in the dead of night. Seliph also had the tendency to get a bit fussy at late hours, especially when he woke up alone in the dark…

But had the sound come from inside, or outside?

Oifey rolls out of the comfort of his blanket silently. It would be foolish to go back to sleep without checking… the one time he decides to slack off will be the day an assassin finds them- he’s sure of it.

On second thought, it’s pretty cold in here. He takes the blanket with him.

He pays the soft light coming from under the bathroom door little mind as he steps into the hall, instead making his way over to Seliph’s crib. He’s learned which floorboards are predisposed to loud creaking, so he winds his way through the hall carefully, avoiding making sound when he can. His blanket, draped across his shoulders like the decadent cape of an emperor, drags on the ground, muffling his steps to the outside world as he shuffles along. He finally rounds the corner, peering down into the baby’s sanctum curiously. 

Seliph is but a patch of messy blue hair peeking out from under the pillowcase he uses as a bedsheet; completely calm and deeply asleep. Oifey wipes his nose on his sleeve, the cold making him shiver. He’d thought the sounds came from inside, but perhaps he was mistaken?

He checks the doors to the outside just to be sure, satisfied to see that they are both still locked. The wind coming in through the broken window chills his face as he leans in towards it, but it doesn’t seem to be a bigger hole than usual, so a break-in is off the table. 

Oifey hums to himself as he absentmindedly organizes the shoes lined up near the door, vision slowly becoming bleary again. If everything was in order, then he should go back to bed…

As he makes his way back to his and Shannan’s nest of a bedroom, he fails to notice that the light from under the bathroom door has gone out.

\---

Oifey wakes again as someone shakes him awake with a rough hand. 

“I told you Shannan, I don’t want to train first thing in the morning...”

“What? No, this isn’t about that- We can train later…” the other boy says as Oifey limply smacks his hand away and rolls over. “Sigurd is hogging the bathroom.”

“Go piss outside.”

“What? No! It’s cold!”

“Then wait.”

Shannan slaps him lightly on the arm. “No- seriously, he’s been in there since I woke up, should we be worried?”

Oifey lifts his head from the cradle of his arms slightly, blowing hair out of his face. It’s gotten long enough to brush past his shoulders now… maybe he should cut it soon…

“Did you ask him what was up?”

“I didn’t want to bother him…”

“So you came and bothered me!?”

Oifey sits up with a huff and a theatrical yawn, making sure to smack Shannan in the leg as he stretches. He abandons his blanket this time; the house has warmed up slightly with the coming of the sun. His midnight stroll around the house must have thrown off his sleeping schedule; usually he’s up at the first bird-call, but it’s too bright out to be that early now. 

“Is Seliph fed?”

“Not yet, unless Sigurd took care of it before I got up.”

“Uh… why don’t you go check on him then, and I’ll see about the bathroom…” Now that he was on his feet, the desire to wash his face was strong, and the bathroom tap was the only working one in the house so far…

“Okay, I’ll see if we have any apples left…” Shannan mumbles to himself as he wanders out of the room.

The bathroom door is closed, but probably not locked. Even so, Oifey doesn’t barge in unannounced, instead leaning against the frame and listening for any sounds inside. It’s silent beyond aside from the sound of the tap slowly dripping. He wonders to himself if Sigurd had somehow fallen asleep in there… the man had been tired the last few days. The tactician reflects on a memory of his childhood, of when he’d fallen asleep in the bath with a high fever, and frowns. Good thing the bath here was broken- the last thing they needed was for Sigurd to accidentally drown himself in the middle of the night…

He knocks on the door lightly.

“Hey, uh, Sigurd? Are you okay in there?”

No one answers. Shannan looks at him expectantly from down the hall, Seliph squirming in his arms. The kid’s been getting more and more restless lately, they’d have to start baby proofing the house soon so that they can let him run around on his own…

“Is he even in there?” Shannan asks.

“I mean- where else would he be?” 

Oifey pokes his head into Sigurd’s bedroom. The windows here are boarded up, bathing the area in darkness, but it’s easy to see that the blanket on the floor isn’t hiding a person underneath… In fact, it lays against the wall haphazardly, as if it had been kicked aside and left there for some time. The candle by the door is cold, Oifey observes as he touches the hard wax.

“It doesn’t look like anyone’s been here all night…”

“Maybe he fell asleep in the bathroom then?”

“That’s what I’m thinking- here, let me take a look. You go feed Seliph.”

The baby makes a loud announcement of “Oy-fee!” upon hearing his name, waving his hand towards the subject of his attention with a crooked-toothed smile. Oifey waves back slightly, unable to hide his nervousness.

The two disappear into the kitchen, and he turns back to the door. 

“I- uh… Sigurd? Are you in there?”

Still no answer. Oifey twists the knob while keeping the door closed. Thankfully, it's unlocked. 

“I’m coming in…”

He opens the door a crack, just enough to be obvious without being able to actually see inside. A final chance to protest on Sigurd’s part. But no indignant response comes, so Oifey pushes his way forward. 

It’s hard to see in here, given the general lack of light. Oifey stares into the near darkness for a moment, searching for any sign of the missing man, but resolves himself to fumbling around on the countertop for a pack of matches instead. He finds it, striking one and lighting the candle that rests near the sink. It’s melted over the side, he notices- as if it had been left burning for a while… perhaps overnight. The dim glow, combined with the tiny slivers of light peeking through the slats in the boards nailed over the windows, is hardly enough to fully reveal the room, but it's good enough for now.

Oifey moves further in, his foot sliding as he steps on something laying on the floor. Looking down, the edge of something metal catches his gaze- scissors? What were they doing on the ground? Someone could be hurt by these… if Seliph had gotten out of his crib in the night and found them...

He places the scissors on the edge of the sink, noticing the rest of the supplies lined up there. Oifey frowns. Usually Sigurd cleans up after he takes care of his bandages. 

“Sigurd?”

The room is small, but it’s so cluttered that even with it’s small area, it’s nearly impossible to see all of it at once. If he was asleep in here somewhere… 

Oifey’s eyes pass over the bathtub. He frowns. 

Suspicions confirmed. 

Only the top half of the man is visible, hunched over the rim of the tub. His legs are sprawled out in between the basin and the wall, leaned at an odd, uncomfortable angle. Oifey steps closer quietly, trying not to startle him. Putting a hand to his forehead makes the tactician’s heart sink; it’s still warm- warmer than it had been yesterday afternoon… It was a miracle he’d made it to the bathroom at all…

He puts a gentle hand on Sigurd’s shoulder, urging him awake.

“Hey… hey, you can’t sleep in here- it’s not good for you…”

Sigurd doesn’t respond. 

Oifey’s frown deepens. 

“Sigurd? Hey, come on now… Let's get you to bed…” He says, more forcefully now in the hopes that his stronger tone would be enough to wake the man… but Sigurd remains exactly where he is, with one hand draped into the bathtub limply. The sound of his breaths are uncharacteristically quiet, even for someone at rest…

Oifey’s heart skips a beat as he brings a hand to the man’s face to check for breathing. He doesn’t fear the worst, but he can’t help but be anxious in a situation like this-

No, wait, he  _ is _ breathing. Softly, but he is. 

Oifey lets out a relieved sigh only to pause. There’s something wet on his hand now. 

“Is he in there?” Shannan looms in the doorway, arms now Seliph-free. 

“Yeah, I think he fell asleep… Pull the board down from the window, would you? I can’t see a thing…”

“Sure- say, does it smell odd in here?”

“A bit, but he left all his salves out and open, so…”

“Nah,” Shannan remarks, shuffling over to the window and tugging on the wooden slat. They had covered the window to keep the cold out, but thankfully, they hadn’t used that many nails… “It smells different than those. Whatever it is, it’s making me a bit nauseous, to be honest…”

Oifey blames his perpetually stuffy nose for not noticing as he wipes his hands on his pants. The light from the window casts itself over the room, revealing more of what Oifey had observed before; bottles on the side of the sink, a few scattered on the floor, a pile of towels lumped next to the tub by Sigurd’s feet. Shannan kicks them aside lightly before glancinging into the basin and wrinkling his nose.

“Oh, gross-”

Oifey follows his gaze and responds to what he sees in much the same way, with a look of disgust.

“Oh, ew…”

Vomit, congealed and waxy, coats the bottom of the tub under Sigurd’s downturned head. That must have been why his hand came away wet-

“Holy shit… that’s a lot though…” Shannan says, kneeling on Sigurd’s other side and wrapping an arm around the man’s shoulders. 

“Yeah… it is… was it something he ate? Or… no, he’s been sick, but he said it was just a headache…”

“Headaches can make you puke if they’re bad enough, I think…”

Oifey draws one of the towels closer, thankfully grabbing a clean one. “Here, lean him back- we should get him cleaned up before we get him back into his room…”

Shannan carefully pries Sigurd off the side of the tub, only to gasp when the man’s head lolls backwards onto his shoulder-

“Holy hell-” 

Oifey lays eyes on Sigurd’s burns for the first time in weeks, and they make his heart stop. What had been simple red patches of skin before are now bruised and blackened chunks, swollen and lumpy and undoubtedly agonizing. The lid of his missing eye is peeled back slightly, the thickened skin too much for his socket, revealing where lesions had opened up, oozing fluid lethargically. Sigurd groans despite his unconsciousness, his eyebrows drawn together in pain. 

Shannan doesn’t stop himself from impulsively touching the man’s face, his thumb coming away wet as barly-holding-on skin peels off at the slightest touch, revealing the nearly necrotic flesh beneath. The boy chokes on a fearful yell, flailing his hand around in order to get the blood, pus, and vomit off of him-

Suddenly, Oifey feels very much inclined to lean over the basin and empty his stomach himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact when i say that oifey accidently fell asleep in the tub when he got sick as a kid i am actually talking about myself. i had the flu :(
> 
> let me know what you think in the comments! what do YOU think will happen next??


	10. mortis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the title is probably not making latin speakers feel very good right now
> 
> anyways! another wild night with the lads!

When Sigurd wakes, it’s with a hazy, glazed over look in his eye. Oifey tries not to move suddenly, instead sliding across the floor in what would have been the man’s peripheral vision and clearing his throat to announce his presence.

Sigurd doesn’t move. He doesn’t even budge. 

Oifey slides the rest of the distance across the floor, the hem of his pant-leg catching on the uneven, chipped tile of the bathroom floor. They had resolved to leave him here after all, especially once he’d started dry heaving in his sleep- so they’d piled up all the blankets in the house in the little space between the wall and the bathtub to make it a bit more comfortable. The chill coming in through the now open window is biting to Oifey, but Sigurd is still sweating, so to him, perhaps the cold air is a godsend. 

Oifey carefully scoots closer, teetering on the edge of one of the now-stained blankets before sitting down. He leans forward into Sigurd’s personal space, looking for any sign of recognition in his clouded eyes.

“Sigurd?”

The man in question shifts slightly, or perhaps his leg just didn’t have the energy to stay folded upright anymore. Oifey raises his hand, his skin cold from resting against the tile for so long, and places it against Sigurd’s forehead as he’d been doing all throughout the morning, checking for any changes in temperature.

Still warm.

No, not warm. Hot. Blisteringly so.

Heat radiates off of him like a fire tome- feverish and chaotic- too intense to be sustainable. Oifey retracts the hand and reaches over to the bowl of water near his feet, grabbing a scrap of towel and dunking it in. The liquid is freezing from being exposed to the air, and it sends a chill down the boy's spine as he wrings out the cloth and places it over the worst of Sigurd’s still exposed injuries. Shannan had suggested not wrapping them again- letting them breathe a little- but the blood and ooze had not stopped running yet, and the burns needed to be cleaned often, lest they become even more infected. 

Even more infected. Oifey grits his teeth. He should have been able to tell.

He’s a tactician, or at least, he was. It’s his job to recognize injuries from afar and make plans to accommodate or fix them… and yet, this had slipped past him so easily. He was a fool to trust that Sigurd had the situation under control- on the battlefield he would happily leave the man to his work without worry, but this was an entirely different situation, one that neither of them had experience with…

Sigurd coughs, and Oifey prepares to push his head over the rim of the tub again- 

But the seizing and retching don’t come. Instead he leans further back into the wall, blinking slowly as he finally begins to process his own wakefulness, his stare finally limited to the bounds of the small, tiled room.

He lays his eye upon Oifey, confused.

“You passed out here last night. You’re sick.”

Sigurd’s voice is thin and strained, his throat burned by stomach acid. “I know.”

“Do you want to go back to bed?”

Sigurd closes his eye, taking a deep breath. He slides a bit further down the wall. “No.”

“Oh…” Oifey responds, relaxing as well. He’d been tensed, ready to jump up at Sigurd’s command. “Do you… are you comfortable?”

“...No.”

Oifey relinquishes his patch of blanket, bunching it up next to Sigurd’s leg instead. It’s too threadbare to be a proper cushion, but it had to be better than nothing... “Is this any better?”

Sigurd pauses for a moment, his eye opening halfway. He doesn’t respond, his breathing speaking for him. It’s a slow, dragging sound- agonizing in the way that it echoes off the walls in the tiny room. Oifey frowns, reaching for the glass of water balanced precariously on the edge of the sink.

“You, uh, threw up a lot last night. Here, you’ll feel better if you drink this.”

He urges the cup into Sigurd’s limp hand, willing him to close his fingers around it. He does, eventually, bringing the water to his face and managing to spill much of it down his front as he drinks. His arm quakes, and Oifey rescues the cup before he can drop it. 

“Better?”

Sigurd groans softly in response, half-lidded eye staring in front of him to where his legs remain crammed in between tile and wood. Oifey kicks himself for asking such a stupid question. Of course he wasn’t feeling ‘better’.

“Shannan went to the market as soon as it opened,” he continues quietly. “He’s going to try and find stronger medicine.”

“I told you not to…”

“Overruled.”

Sigurd stares at him blankly. He’s a nice man, but sometimes Oifey forgets he’d been raised as the next in line of a noble house, and was likely not used to being told ‘no’. 

“We need to save that money…”

“If this isn’t an emergency, I don’t know what is.”

Sigurd coughs, raspy and dry. The towel slides off the side of his face, landing on the floor with a limp splat. Oifey throws it into the corner to rest with it’s brethren, all similarly caked in brown and yellow gunk. Another lesion has opened up below Sigurd’s eye- angry, enflamed, and oozing with fresh blood. Oifey stares at the other side of his face instead, focusing on the tired, gray lines that have carved themselves in the flesh there. 

“Oifey…”

“Yes? What do you need?”

“...We need to talk.”

Oifey’s heart sinks. That was never a good sentence to hear. “About what?”

Sigurd remains silent for a few moments, gathering thoughts in his heat-addled brain. He’s gotten paler since he woke, Oifey notices with a worried glance.

“I trust you, Oifey, so I’m going to be… plain with you.”

“About… about what?”

Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Please, they’ve worked so hard- don’t-

“I don’t think I have much time left.”

Oifey can’t hide his panicked expression. “That’s nonsense. Shannan will be back within the hour with exactly what you need, and you’ll be on your feet again by sundown.”

Shannan had been at the market for twice the amount of time as usual. If there was a cure hiding among the meager stalls, he was likely having trouble finding and affording it.

Sigurd shakes his head, damp strings of dark hair hanging in his face. He coughs again before clearing his throat. “An hour… may not be…”

“No!” Oifey interrupts, angry. “You’ll be fine, just- keep holding on for a little while longer-”

“ _ Oifey. _ ” The firmness of Sigurd’s voice stops the boy in his tracks, his mouth hanging open in memory of a partially thought-out argument against nature. “Please… just listen to me…”

The tactician closes his mouth reluctantly, meeting Sigurd’s tired gaze.

“I do not have much longer… But there are some… very specific things I would like you to do… when I am gone. Are you listening..?”

Oifey nods. The space behind his eyes hurts. He bites his lip hard enough to bruise.

“Good. I need you boys… to take good care of Seliph. I want you-” he stops to turn his head away, coughing hard into the corner of the room. “When I am gone, I want you to take Seliph… and leave Isaach.”

“L-leave? But we’re going to fight back… we were planning-”

“No.” His voice is firm. Unquestionable. “You’re… not strong enough for that. You were right… Oifey… when you told me all those weeks ago… none of us will  _ ever _ be strong enough for that. So I want you to take him… and leave.”

“Where will we go? Grannvale is…”

“There’s a continent… across the sea. I cannot recall its name, but there’s people there. Cities- massive in scale from the legends I’ve heard. Take him there. Raise him there.” 

“Abandon Jugdral?”

“There’s nothing that three children could hope to accomplish here… holy blood or not.”

“But… what about… you said- when you were feeling better, you would go back for Deirdre…”

Any remaining light in Sigurd’s eyes goes out then, leaving only dark, blank shadows behind. “I want to- Oifey you know how badly I want to- I’d give anything… but I just… I can’t. I can’t. And I don’t think you can either…”

Oifey sniffles. Something hot runs down his cheek. 

Sigurd pauses to take a deep breath before continuing. “And… before you go… make sure you get rid of all the evidence of our presence here…” He shifts again, elbows bumping against the wall. His sling is gone now, Oifey notices- not because his arm is healed, but because he’d passed out before he could put it back on. It remains draped over the side of the sink, spotted with faded dye. “Before you go… when I am gone, I want you to take-” he hesitates for a moment, as if afraid of speaking the future into existence, “Take my… body… and burn it. Inside the house.”

“You want us to commit  _ arson? _ But what about the homes nearby… the residents…”

Sigurd frowns as much as he can. The swelling from the wound encroaches on his mouth a bit, making the side of his face stiff, as if caught in a stroke. “They are far enough away… besides… most of them... are... abandoned…”

He slumps forwards, and for a heart-stopping second, Oifey thinks he’s passed there and then. But then, the man takes a deep breath, balancing his forehead on the rim of the tub and peering up at the boy through his hair. 

“You’ll do it… won’t you?”

Oifey’s throat feels tight.

“Please… no… we can’t-”

“Oifey… please… just tell me you’ll do it…”

“I don’t know… I don’t know… Sigurd, we can’t do this alone-”

Sigurd reaches out with a shaking, clammy hand, and Oifey takes it instantly, holding the deadweight limb to his chest. The man’s voice is quiet enough to be nearly inaudible as his eye slides closed, his face shifting from a pained expression to a peaceful one. 

“You don’t... have a... choice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next time on dragonball z: wtf is taking shannan so long at the market
> 
> let me know what you think in the comments!


	11. clēricus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's shannan up to?

“Can I help you, son?”

The bell attached to the apothecary’s door jingles as Shannan crosses the threshold, one hand stuffed in his pocket nervously. His sweaty fingers slide over the rough paper of the note Oifey had given him- barely legible even in bright sunlight. His hand had been shaking, just as Shannan’s is now.

The man behind the counter is portly and old, his dark hair having gone grey many moons ago. A pair of wireframe glasses are balanced precariously on the tip of his nose, making his eyes look far too small for his face at this angle. He places aside a stack of papers and folds his hands in front of him, looking expectantly at the visitor. Shannan clears his throat. 

“I- uh- a friend of mine is ill. I’d like to purchase some medicine.”

“You’ve come to the right place. Step forward, will you? You’re letting the bugs inside.”

Shannan closes the door behind him, shuffling across the creaky wooden floor as he pulls the note from his pocket. He glances around at the walls of the small store curiously, observing the herbs hanging from nails and the shelves of bottles and vials.

“Now tell me, son,” the man leans forward to get a better look at Shannan. The counter sits on a platform, making the young swordsman feel rather small as he’s observed from above. “What ails your friend?”

Shannan glances down at the note. Oifey’s handwriting, usually neat and strong-lined, is scratchy and smudged upon the page. Holding it in his hand while running here in a panic probably hadn’t helped with that. 

“He’s got an infection. And a fever.”

The apothecary rubs a hand under his nose in thought, upsetting his moustache. “An infection? Ah, that’s not so bad- a little bit of alcohol should take care of that…” He reaches under the counter before pulling out a bottle of clear, unlabeled liquid. “It won’t feel good, but this should kill just about anything you put it on.” 

Shannan blinks at the bottle, and the man narrows his eyes. 

“How old are you, young man?”

“Uh..” What month was it again? Had his birthday passed already..? “I’m fifteen.”

“Fifteen? You’re a scrawny little thing, aren't you?”

Shannan tries not to look too offended by the man’s comment. The shopkeep laughs. “I do have to ask, when selling this kind of thing… It’s not for drinking, but in desperate times like these, people are just about willing to do anything to forget their problems…”

“I understand that well enough…”

“Ah, finding yourself in a time of hardship, boy?”

“Aren't we all?”

“It’s been better…” the man muses, “but it could always be a lot worse. No Grannvale troops have come through the town yet… though how much longer that will last, I’m not sure…”

The man shakes his head. “Ah, but you young folks don’t care about that sort of thing, do you? What would you know about the war… no- what you need is to focus on what you have now, as in helping out that friend of yours… lets see, what else do I have here…”

He turns around, pushing his glasses back up to his face as he explores a small shelf to his right.

“We could also use some bandages, if you have any…” Shannan says, taking another step forward towards the counter.

“Bandages… yes we always have those- on the cheap too. Good quality stuff, you see…” The man mumbles, placing a ball of gauze on the table next to the bottle. “How bad is your friend’s infection? A scratch on the arm, or-?”

Nausea makes bile rise in Shannan’s throat as he remembers what he’d seen in the bathroom. “No- no it’s an, uh…” Surely describing what had happened vaguely wouldn’t be too much information? “It’s a burn wound. All over his face. We haven’t had clean water at our house for a while now.”

The shopkeep raises an eyebrow. 

“I’m sorry to hear that, son… you know you could always use the town well for water, right? In fact, I’d recommend it for cleaning injuries and such… the city keeps it maintained, you know?”

“I… I didn’t think of that. Thanks for the tip…”

“And your friend- you say infected burns?”

“That’s right.”

“How bad of a burn?”

Shannan bites his lip, furrowing his brow. Aren’t burns universally bad..?

The shopkeep recognizes his confusion. “Are they pink, red, or black?”

“A bit of all three.”

“Then you need-” he reaches around the cabinet to somewhere on the floor out of sight, “Antibiotics.”

“What does that do?”

“It makes sure that nothing nasty can grow inside the wounds while they’re healing.” He points to the alcohol. “He’s going to want to wash it with this first, and then apply the rest of the medicine. The alcohol kills the illness, and the medicine makes sure the illness stays dead. It’ll hurt just about as much as getting burned again, but he’ll live.”

Shannan sighs in relief, digging a hand into his satchel for some coin. “How much for all of it?”

“Two pieces.”

“That’s it?”

The shopkeep smiles slightly. “No one’s visited my shop all week, aside from you. The conversation is worth most of the payment. You seem like a good kid.”

Shannan blinks, astonished. “I- thank you, sir… This really means a lot to us.”

The man nods in response, handing the supplies down to him. Shannan puts each item in his bag carefully before shaking the man’s hand.

“Say, young man,” the shopkeep starts, leaning back in his seat once more, “you wouldn’t know anyone interested in an apprenticeship here, would you? I could use some company around the shop… not to mention- despite my best efforts, I’m starting to get a bit old for these long working days…” 

Shannan pauses. They  _ were _ running out of money… someone would need to get a job soon, otherwise they’d be forced to turn to robbery… and goodness knows none of them were depraved enough for that yet- “Um… I can ask my friends if they’re interested… none of us really have jobs at the moment, to be honest…”

“Good to hear… thanks for your momentary company, my boy. I do appreciate it… and best of luck to your friend as well.”

Shannan grins as he waives goodbye, breathing a deep sigh of relief as he leaves the shop. A few minutes of swift walking, and then everything would be alright. 

He shuffles along the market street, avoiding the attention of any of the sellers peddling their wares at outdoor booths. It was a sunny day, if a bit chilly, so the area is lively with color and sound. A family- a mother and at least six children of varying ages- blocks his path forward, so he dips down an alleyway to avoid the hubbub. This way was quicker anyways, and it wasn’t like the city was dangerous in broad daylight. He kicks the rotting core of an apple as he turns another corner, avoiding a cloud of smoke coming from a nearby vent. The smell of a cooking fire sticks in his nostrils as he winds his way around another bend-

Someone sits, crouched in the alleyway before him, blocking his path. Their face is obscured by their clothing- a thin hooded robe that hugs their slight frame and makes them look ghostly and ethereal, even as they crouch among the discarded crates and boxes. They don’t see him standing there in the light, instead focusing hard on what they are doing with their hands. Rotten fruit, shoved into their pockets, deepens stains left in their clothing. They wheeze and sniffle as they rummage through the trash.

Shannan takes a step forward. A beggar was not to be feared, especially one as small as this. Even if they were to pull a knife on him, the dull sword at his belt should be enough to scare them off-

They whirl around as Shannan begins to approach, their stringy, greasy hair hanging in their face. Shannan starts a bit as they stare at each other in surprise, frozen in place by the distinct feeling of memory tugging at his brain. Hadn’t the village guard that had visited them warned them of a foreign thief in town?

He opens his mouth as the person takes a step back, coveting the rotten food held tightly in their grip. 

“W-wait! I’m not going to hurt you…” Shannan raises his hands, stepping closer to the wall, “I… I’m just passing by…”

The person straightens up, allowing Shannan to get a good look at them. Their robes are torn and filthy, as if unwashed for weeks on end. A woman’s face, scarred and stained, peers out at him from between curtains of thick, matted blonde hair. 

“Sh… Shannan? Is that you?” she whispers, voice hoarse. 

Shannan takes a step back, stunned. “Uh-”

“Shannan…” The beggar steps forward, one hand, mottled with a very familiar pattern of burns, outstretched towards his face. “You’re alright… I’d hoped… I’d heard from the others…”

Something in his brain clicks through the feelings of alarm, and it takes all the energy in his small body not to shout her name from the rooftops in the throes of disbelief. Instead, his voice comes out as a strangled whisper; a snake’s hiss.

“L… Lady Edain?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone get this kid a powerball ticket he's on a roll


	12. pōmum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to be just a little scene tacked onto the end of the last chapter BUT i think edain's introduction deserves more love than that. she deserves it.

He can’t help but stare as Edain closes the distance between them, putting her hands on his cheeks lightly, staining them with the remains of the food she had been in the process of stealing away. Shannan can’t believe it- not only is she alive, she’s also  _ here _ , in the exact little pocket of the world that they are…

She’s a cleric.

She would be able to help.

“E-Edain!” he squeaks, throat constricting as his mouth begins to catch up to his mind. “We need your help!”

She withdraws her hands. Her eyebrows pinch together, her piercing gaze softened by grime and exhaustion. “My help..?  _ We _ ..?”

Shannan nods, glancing down both ends of the alleyway to check that they are truly alone. Only a stray cat running down the path catches his attention, so he turns back to his companion before leaning in to whisper in her ear. He’s gotten taller since he’d seen her last; he doesn’t need to stand on the tips of his toes anymore. She smells terrible- like soot and spoiled food and sewage waste, but he does not wrinkle his nose at her. Such rudeness is unbecoming of a prince, especially one living off of boiled water and leftover war rations. He isn’t exactly baby-fresh himself. 

He hesitates for a second, peeking down the alley just one more time before whispering, “Sigurd lives.”

She gasps, bringing a hand to her mouth. “No… no that’s impossible… I saw him die with my own eyes…”

Shannan shakes his head, backing up a bit but still keeping his voice low. “No… he survived… him, Oifey, and myself set up in a house on the outskirts of the slums… we’ve been living there for weeks.”

“Weeks? But… how have they not chased you out yet… the town guard, I mean?”

Shannan allows himself a fraction of a smile. The hope that comes from seeing a familiar face swells in his chest, making his heartbeat pick up. If Edain was alright, then who else…

“We’ve been using disguises. We all changed our names and dressed up like locals, and everyone assumed we were just a group of folks coming back from the war. They were probably a bit suspicious at first, but now with everything else going on in the world, no one pays us any mind anymore…”

Something glitters at the corner of Edain’s eye. She wipes her nose with her sleeve, smiling. “Clever… Ah… I never thought I’d see any of you again…”

“Me neither…” the swordsman admits, “and that’s why you’re gonna come home with me. We have supplies, and shelter. We can help you.”

“Shelter…” Edain trails off, thinking. She meets Shannan’s gaze again, this time with a hint of trepidation. “Shannan… It’s not just me…”

“Other survivors?!”

Edain raises her hands. For the first time, the teenager notices that the tips of her fingers are coated in a thick layer of scar tissue, puffy and grey against her skin. The look of a rapidly healed burn.

“No… no Shannan… I’m the only survivor I know of… Shannan- I brought the children with me.”

“The children?” 

Oh right, she’d had kids while they were marching, hadn’t she? What were their names… Gods, the little one probably wasn’t even a year old yet…

“Mine, and others… I’ve been taking care of them since we escaped Grannvale… I don’t know how much supplies and room you have, but please, take them in before you offer that same kindness to me… I’ve done all I can to keep them alive, but I’m…” she exhales shakily, “...reaching the end of my rope.”

“How many are there?”

“Four of them… my children, and…” She hesitates, looking him over. “And Lady Ayra’s.”

Shannan’s heart nearly leaps out of his mouth. “L-Lady…”

His cousins. He’d assumed they were dead as soon as the news from Belhalla began to roll in… he’d cried about it for a day straight, the day of sorrow burrowing the memory of Oifey’s arms around his shoulders into his brain for all eternity… 

But no. 

They were alive.

“And- Ayra? Is she-?”

Edain shakes her head sadly. “No… she’s not here… Though, I did not see her perish on the battlefield, so it’s possible she’s still out there…” She places a hand on his shoulder. When had he started trembling? “Likely, even. You know how good she was on her feet… I doubt she got caught under one of those meteors. She was too quick a swordswoman for that.”

Shannan nods, jaw stiff. 

He would have preferred to see her, but that many miracles in one day was asking for too much.

He shakes his head, hair flying in every direction as he clears his swirling feelings from his mind. There would be plenty of time to celebrate and mourn later. “You said… children… four of them- where are they?”

Edain takes his arm, leading him back towards the other end of the alleyway. 

“Follow me.”

\---

“Over here; watch your step…”

He carefully avoids a particularly sandy slope as he follows her, picking his way through the rocky terrain with one hand on his satchel, protecting the medicine inside. They would have to hurry; surely Oifey and Sigurd must be getting antsy by now…

“Mama!”

A yell startles him out of his thoughts, making him slip slightly on the gravel. He steadies himself with a wild wave of his arms as something small and blue races across his vision, colliding with Edain’s legs as she finally makes it onto firm ground.

“Lester… what did I say about leaving the cave…” She chides gently as she kneels down, coming face to face with a young boy with wild blue hair. He couldn’t have been more than five, Shannan notices, but he’s wearing clothes that are far too small for him and tearing at the edges. 

Edain turns the child by the shoulder to face Shannan. “Lester, we have a guest. This is Shannan.”

Shannan tries to smile, but it’s difficult when looking at the boy. The poor kid is as filthy and downtrodden looking as his mother is. No child should have to live like this…

Lester tilts his head, appraising the swordsman with a calculating eye.

“Are you Larcei’s dad?”

Shannan gulps audibly. Larcei- that’s the name of one of Ayra’s children-

“Lester, no. He’s her cousin. He’s a kid, like you… far too young to be a dad…” Edain explains.

Lester narrows his eyes a bit. “Hmm… you look too tall to be a kid.”

“I, uh…” How does one talk to a five year old? He knows how to talk to Seliph, but Seliph can barely say his own name. “I’m an older kid. I’m almost a grown-up, but not quite.”

Lester blinks before turning back to his mother, appeased. “Mama, I’m hungry.”

Edain reaches for her pocket, towards one of the rotten fruits she’d stolen from the trash. Shannan races forwards, putting a hand on her arm to stop her. No, they shouldn’t have to eat garbage anymore… 

He turns to Lester, brushing off Edain’s confused expression. “Can you wait a little bit longer? I know somewhere with fresh food, but we have to walk there.”

Lester looks to his mother, apprehensive. The lesson of ‘don’t go along with strangers’ is one well taught in this family, evidently.

Edain lets out a breath. 

“Shannan…”

“It’s no trouble at all, Lady Edain. There’s plenty of room- enough for all of you, yourself included. Come on, let’s gather everyone up and we can head over right now.”

She’s crying again, just a little bit, but Shannan hopes in his heart that the tears are happy, relieved ones. She nods shakily. “Y-yes… the other children… right this way…”

She leads him into a small cave with walls of rough sandstone. Boxes and crates are littered around a small fire, and as he peers into one of them, despair gathers in his chest. 

A baby, frightfully skinny and unnaturally still, lays in the crate, one tiny hand wrapped around the corner of a threadbare handkerchief that covers them like a blanket. He reaches down carefully, and the child opens their eyes as they are lifted into the air, groggy and agitated. 

“That’s Lana, my daughter…” Edain starts, taking the baby from him and nestling her against her shoulder. “Larcei and Scáthach are over here in these boxes…”

There’s a shuffling on the other side of the fire as a head of dark hair peers out from one of the crates, staring at Shannan curiously. Lester wanders up to the newly-awoken, leaning over the side of the wooden container to ruffle their hair. 

Scáthach observes Shannan with disinterest. Shannan’s response is quite the opposite.

“I can’t believe it…” He falls to his knees in front of the boy, one hand reaching to replace Lester’s on the top of his head. “I didn’t think you were lying, Edain, but…”

“I know, it must be quite a shock…” she starts, rousing Larcei from her nap. The little girl yawns before sticking a stubby finger in her ear, ignoring Shannan’s presence entirely. He gawks at her, as if seeing a ghost for the first time-

“How- how long have you all been living here?”

“Ever since we escaped Grannvale,” Edain states, settling the two little girls comfortably in her skinny arms. “In truth, Prince Lewyn provided us directions… he said it would be safe here… I don’t know how he escaped the battle- or where he is now, but…”

“He was the one who sent Sigurd to us… he must be seeing survivors to safety… I wonder if he’ll send anyone else here…” Shannan starts, picking Scáthach up and allowing the boy to grab onto his back like a monkey clinging to a tree. 

“Oh- I meant to ask you!” Shannan starts, looking to Edain in concern, “Sigurd- he’s very sick… I was in town to get medicine for him… but would you be able to take a look at him when we arrive? Oifey’s probably scared out of his mind right about now…”

“Sick..? Oh, that reminds me-” She points a foot in the direction of one of the empty boxes. “Your free hand- can you grab my staff for me? It’s the only thing I have left… and it’s the only thing that’s kept us alive for this long…”

Shannan grabs onto the cool metal with a shaking hand. 

Yes, everything was finally starting to go their way… hope was well within reach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> suddenly the cast doubles! at least now seliph will have someone to play with...
> 
> please leave a comment if you are enjoying!


	13. clēmentia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally the party reunites!

“No, stop that-”

Oifey presses Sigurd’s shoulder against the wall again, preventing the other man from standing. After his brief few moments of sobering clarity, he hadn’t passed out again- instead he’d been gripped by what could only be called violently realistic hallucinations brought on by his steadily climbing fever.

He’d attacked Oifey- or rather, he’d tried to. What would have been a lunge ended in more of a sad stumbling, sending them both to the floor as Sigurd rambled incoherently about one battle or another, something about a meteor-

But he’s calmed down now. Lethargic to a worrying degree.

The man mumbles something about “needing to get ready”, sliding away slightly in an attempt to get away from Oifey’s following hand. He doesn’t get far; his legs refuse to move, even as he struggles to stand upright. Oifey wonders if it’s because of simple exhaustion, or something more nefarious.

Sigurd groans as he is tugged back towards the wall yet again, the back of his head thudding against the tile. “I have... to go…”

Oifey humors him. Maybe keeping up conversation would be good for both of their psyches. “Where?”

“Quan... needs my help…” Sigurd slurs, fixing the tactician with a pleading look, the same sort that a child would direct towards a parent when the cookie jar is just out of reach.

“Quan can wait a bit, don’t you think?” Speaking the names of dead men hasn't gotten any easier, but Sigurd’s brain is too fried to realize the error of his ways.

“No… he needs help… let me…” He tries to stand again, only to be urged back onto the ground once more. Oifey doesn’t lift his hand this time, instead gripping the man’s shoulder tighter in an effort to permanently affix him to the floor. 

“If you don’t stop squirming around, I’ll be forced to tie your arm to the pipes,” Oifey warns, gesturing towards the sink. Sigurd pays his threat little mind, and Oifey fails to parse his words before they descend back into nonsensical groans of agitation. 

At least he hadn’t thrown up anymore. Cleaning the tub was a massive pain, especially when he’d had to drop what he was doing in order to keep Sigurd from crawling out of the room in a panicked haze. 

Oifey grabs another wet cloth, the tips of his fingers tingling as they leave the cold water. “Here, this will feel better…”

Sigurd stills as his attention turns toward the cool object on his forehead, and Oifey takes a deep breath as he carefully removes his hand from the man’s shoulder. When he started to get restless, the cold water was a good distraction from whatever memory was replaying itself behind the man’s eyes. The cloth should be enough to sedate him for at least a few moments. As with most things, there was a strategy to this situation. Oifey only hopes that it’s not one he has to memorize for future use.

A bang in the hall startles the tactician out of his thoughts. Tensing suddenly, he’s on his feet in mere seconds, dashing to the countertop where his sword sits balanced on top of bottles of medicine, out of Sigurd’s clumsy reach. He presses his back into the tile, leaning towards the door, listening for more sounds of intrusion-

“Oi, Oifey, are you two still in there?”

He opens the door so fast that he nearly hits himself in the face. Shannan takes a startled step back, hands full of supplies. “I got stuff.”

“Shannan?” A woman’s voice echoes down the hall, weak but curious.

“And help. I got help too.”

Oifey’s brow wrinkles. “But, we’re not supposed to bring clerics or doctors here-”

Shannan grins. “I know, but-” he turns his head calling down the hallway. “Edain! They’re over here!”

“ _ Edain?! _ ”

The woman who fades into view could hardly be called a graceful noble priestess anymore, but her face, marred by scar tissue as it is, couldn’t belong to anyone else. Oifey gasps as Shannan pushes him aside, allowing her to enter the cramped room, staff in hand. 

“Wait, where- how did you-  _ Edain? _ ”

“Oifey…” she starts, gazing at him tenderly. “Oh… I’m so glad you’re alright…”

“Where did you come from?”

“She’s been living in a cave nearby the past few weeks,” Shannan supplies, and it’s then that Oifey notices the small, dark-haired child clinging to his friend’s legs. “Her and a bunch of kids.”

“Kids?”

The little girl peers at him cautiously, making no effort to introduce herself. Oifey stumbles over his words as Edain glides past him and Shannan begins to hand him supplies. 

“Speaking of- help Edain with Sigurd, would you? I promised them some food…” The swordsman leans down to scoop up the child in his arms, who promptly shoves her small hand inside of her mouth. Oifey cringes; she’s filthy, surely that wasn’t the most healthy thing to do…

“S... sure… Later though. You. Me. Explanations.”

“Of course,” Shannan responds, turning his back and walking back down the hall. The voices of more children sound from the kitchen; just how many had he found? He shakes his head, closing the door again with his foot. He could worry about children later. There are far more severe problems at hand at the moment. 

Edain kneels in front Sigurd, who stares at her with one bleary, confused eye. He looks as if he’s trying to identify her, her name at the tip of his tongue, just out of reach. Oifey’s heart sinks. Could he even see her, or was this all just a burning haze to him?

“Oh… Naga has not been kind to you…” Edain says softly, brushing some of the hair away from the man’s forehead and resting her palm against his skin. 

“Deirdre…” He mumbles back. Oifey frowns.

“He thinks he still marching,” he supplies as Edain shoots him a questioning look. “He was talking fine before, but the past hour or so his fever got really, really bad. He keeps trying to get up and talk to people.” He pauses, choosing his words carefully, “...people who… aren’t here.”

Edain nods, glancing around the room. “Why is he on the floor in here? He should be in a bed…”

“We have no beds at the moment… this is where we found him this morning, so we just left him. He was having trouble keeping food down.”

Sigurd coughs, continuing to search Edain’s face, obviously confused. Oifey wonders, does he see Deirdre there? Or is he just voicing hopes aloud…

“I see. That’s… probably good thinking. The less moving around he does, the better.” Edain turns to Sigurd, speaking gently. “I’m here to help you, alright? But I need you to listen to me…”

Sigurd doesn’t respond, exhaling a shallow breath in place of words.

“He’s not much for talking at the moment.” Oifey supplies.

“Hm… well, I suppose that’s fine…” she trails off, searching the room with her eyes before finally turning back to Oifey. “You’re going to be my assistant, is that alright?”

“Of course- just tell me what you need.”

“I need cold water, any clean fabric that you have available… and any medicine you have in this house. I can fix illness and injury with magic, but I fear using too much might push him over the edge… So we’ll have to alternate between my staff and more conventional solutions. The most important thing right now is to bring his temperature back down…” She bites her lip. “We got here at just the right time… I have no idea how you would have fixed this with only salves and bandages…”

Oifey’s stomach flips. So Sigurd, in his last bout of consciousness, had been right.

“Here…” she speaks to Sigurd again, voice soft but not condescending, “let’s lay you down right here… you’ll feel better if you lay down.”

The man doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he’s not in any position to put up a fight as Edain nudges him to the ground and piles a blanket under his head. 

“Deirdre…” he mumbles again, his eye rolling back in his head. He goes limp after that, hand hitting the floor with a dull thud.

“Oh, well- that saves me some trouble, I suppose…” Edain mumbles as Sigurd’s breathing begins to even out, unconsciousness stealing him out from under her grasp. 

Oifey slides the bowl of still-cold water over to her before beginning to line up clean towels on the side of the bathtub. Edain takes one in her hands and soaks it before lightly pressing it to Sigurd’s still oozing wounds, beginning the process of lifting away hours worth of grime from his face. She’s more thorough and more gentle than Oifey was, but then again, she’s trained for this sort of thing. An injury like this would probably be a walk in the park for her. 

“Oifey, would you be so kind as to hand me that bottle?”

He picks it up- it’s heavier than the rest, and larger too. Full of clear liquid. He yanks the cork out, wrinkling his nose at the sudden, harsh smell of alcohol. 

“Ugh…”

“A necessary evil,” Edain comments, taking the bottle from him. “Truthfully, this should have been done weeks ago, but… I can’t blame all of you for not knowing…” She grabs another rag, soaking it in the foul substance. She pauses for a moment as she places the bottle down on the floor, her hand hovering over Sigurd’s face.

Oifey glances at her. She’s biting her lip again.

“Let’s hope I haven’t gotten rusty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> time for humpty dumpty to get his shit un-fucked once and for all


End file.
